Of Snow and Dark Water
by Penguin
Summary: In their final year at Hogwarts, Harry and Draco have to make difficult decisions about their future - and they will play an important part in each other's lives and choices. (Slash.)
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

A/N: Many, many thanks to my betas, **Plumeria**, **Verdant**, **Darklites**, and **Lowi**. Thanks also to **VanityFair**,** Earthquake **and** Aidan Lynch**, who helped me with the prologue.

Author: Penguin

Title: OF SNOW AND DARK WATER

PROLOGUE

The cupola-shaped greenhouse lay slumbering in the soft summer dusk. The multitude of glass panes reflected the light that remained in the sky and made the faceted structure shimmer like a jewel that someone had dropped in the grass on the Malfoy grounds, away from the manor house itself, halfway down towards the lake. 

Inside, in the circular central pool, hundreds of varieties of lotus flowers and water lilies floated on the dark water, their rainbow spectrum of colours glowing faintly through the gloom. It was hot and humid and still, quiet except for the occasional drop of water falling into the curved basin that ran along the greenhouse walls. The effect was soporific. 

But not all the plants were asleep. In the central pool, enormous green pads with upturned edges, like giant pie dishes, floated on the water, and here and there among them, grotesquely large, hairy flower buds lifted their heads. The giant nymphaea plants did not sleep. They were at work. They were involved in a strenuous reproduction process, labouring to send up more buds to the surface, their effort so intense that anyone who touched the buds would have jumped back in surprise – the buds were warm to the touch, nearing human body temperature. 

Some of them were opening now. The thick green sepals unfolded almost reluctantly, some to reveal bridal white petals and some to reveal blushing pink ones, yes, blushing as they lamented the loss of their virginity the previous night or rejoiced in having been initiated into the mystery of life. 

The giant nymphaea plants flower at night, and for two nights only. The first night, the flower is pristine and white. It lays itself open, waiting half in dread for the insects to enter it and crawl deep into the trembling golden centre to feast on the nectar, to ravish and plunder and gorge themselves with it. The flower endures the night, shivering at the crawling invasion into its deepest, most secret core, and in the first morning light, it vindicates itself by closing around the drowsy, sated, intoxicated insects. 

It doesn't kill. It only keeps them there for the day, determined to utilise the violation and turn it into something good, making the sticky little bodies scuttle around in confusion and gather as much pollen as possible. And when night returns, the flower opens up again, slowly, to release the disoriented insects, tumbling out of the sweet-smelling heat into the cooler air of the glasshouse. And now the flower is pink. On the second and last night of its brief life, it blushes in pride and shame. 

And then it is all over. The flower dies and sinks back into the dark depth of the pool, where the seeds develop and mature in mud and slime, their short lives in air and beauty finding completion in those long, unsavoury months in the deep – until they reach maturity and begin to grow, to push pads and flower buds to the surface, where they in their turn can open to air and life, and have their brief taste of beauty.


	2. Flower and Flame

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Author: Penguin

Title: OF SNOW AND DARK WATER

"The sympathetic connexion supposed to exist between a man and the weapon which has wounded him is probably founded on the notion that the blood on the weapon continues to feel with the blood in his body."  
_Sir James Frazer, The Golden Bough_

CHAPTER 1 –****FLOWER AND FLAME

**__**

APRIL, 1991

Lucius Malfoy leant on the damp edge of the central basin in the Malfoy Victoria House, straining his eyes to take in as much as possible of the oval, darkly veined pads and the lotus-like white flowers floating on the surface. The flowers were small but perfectly shaped, the pointed petals a creamy white, darkening into warm gold at the tips.

"And you say this is the only one of its kind?" he asked the gardener, who stood nervously beside him, chewing his lip and waiting for the axe to fall.

"Yes, sir."

"And it's a hybrid you have produced here, in my Victoria House, without any assistance from London?"

"Yes, sir."

"Or, indeed, from Hogwarts? You haven't taken any advice or help from that foolish Sprout woman, have you?"

"No, sir."

"Good."

The gardener's shoulders relaxed visibly, but Lucius Malfoy had more questions.

"Why this colour, if I may ask? Why not something more... _striking_, like the Egyptian variety over there?"

He nodded towards some purplish blue flowers across the pool, and the gardener moved uneasily as the colour deepened in his cheeks.

"Sir… I had two things in mind. One was the colouring of the Malfoy family… of hair and eyes. And the other was the elegance and style and… and simplicity of white flowers. I thought flamboyance would be inappropriate, considering that good taste has always been emphasised in this house. I know how you abhor vulgarity, sir. And in my humble opinion, a small but perfectly shaped white flower with just a touch of gold would be a suitable representation of the Malfoy family." He paused, and as Lucius Malfoy said nothing, he added nervously: "Sir."

"Yes..." Lucius Malfoy said slowly, resting his eyes on the delicate petals without really seeing them. "Yes, Markham. You have done an excellent job. White is a very wise choice. Very tasteful. Excellent."

He eyed the gardener thoughtfully. 

"You have a good understanding of the Malfoy values," he said finally, "and of the way the Malfoy mind works. And don't think I haven't noticed it before now. It wasn't coincidence that placed this delicate task in your hands." His eyes wandered down from the gardener's carefully neutral face, over his dirt-stained blue trousers to his boots, before slowly returning to his face. Markham said nothing, but met Lucius Malfoy's eyes with a slight air of defiance. "Old Fosberry is getting… well, _old_. He has hinted to me that he would like to retire sometime soon. I need a new head gardener, Markham."

Markham stared at him, the dark blue of his eyes shifting slightly as a thousand thoughts fluttered behind them, none of them articulated, all of them considered. 

"The salary will be substantially higher than your present one, as I am sure you realise. And no doubt you are aware that, as my head gardener, you will have some… should we say... extended responsibilities?"

"Yes, sir." The answer came almost in a whisper.

"As head gardener at Malfoy Manor you will be a highly important figure. For the Manor, and for me personally. And you will also be of the utmost importance for… for some of my acquaintances. I am confident that you understand the implications of this."

"I understand perfectly, sir."

"Excellent. Can I expect your answer by this evening?"

A glimpse of something brilliant flashed across the dark blue irises. Lucius Malfoy held the gardener's gaze and was thrilled. He knew he had made a good choice. An interesting one, perhaps even a controversial one. The man was intelligent and resourceful and understood the concept of taste. It remained to be seen whether he was also trustworthy. Lucius Malfoy had a strong sense that he wasn't, or at least only as far as it served his own personal purposes – but then again, that was true for most of humanity and, besides, a Malfoy always enjoyed a challenge.

"I can give it now, sir. It would be an honour. I… Thank you, sir."

Lucius Malfoy smiled faintly as he held out his hand to the gardener, who took it, slightly wary, but his handshake was firm.

"I will let you know when you can start. You will need an introduction to your new tasks. Some... special instructions. Well done, Markham. I appreciate what you have done here."

The door to the Victoria House opened, Lucius Malfoy's dark cloak swept out, and the door closed again behind him. The cool draught stirred the hot humidity and made the gardener shiver.

It was a full ten minutes before his breathing returned to normal.

**__**

SUMMER, 1997

There was no denying that Lord Voldemort in his human form, a middle-aged Tom Riddle, was handsome. He had a powerful, square-jawed face, dark hair greying at the temples, an air of indisputable authority and a kind of palpable physical energy that visibly impressed the women and, less obtrusively, the men. His robes were simple but expertly cut, and if you looked closer you recognised the fall and texture of expensive materials. He moved as if his old-new human body was a joy to him. You could look at him and appreciate his person the way you always would appreciate a handsome human being, but when he turned and looked at you, you knew that this was no ordinary man. And it wasn't your intellect telling you. It was your reptile brain.

In the dark irises, red flames glowed and danced. And when he turned those burning eyes on you, you knew you had met evil.

Most people recognise evil when they see it, but their reactions differ. Some recoil in horror; some stare in fascination. Some immediately see the possibility of power positions for themselves in the proximity of evil. Some get sexually excited by it. 

Draco Malfoy had seen evidence of all these reactions during the meeting he had attended this afternoon, from both women and men.

His father was definitely one of those who sought power, but Draco wasn't entirely sure that he was not also one of those who found sexual gratification in evil. Draco found this revolting.

It was the first time Lucius had allowed his son to attend a Death Eater meeting. Draco had never been told right out that his father was a Death Eater, but it hadn't been made a secret, either. All through his childhood, he had known, but he had only just had it confirmed. Now that he was seventeen, Lucius had deemed him old enough to be introduced into the higher society.

It wasn't an inner circle meeting in any respect. On the contrary. This was a mass gathering, held at Lord Voldemort's country estate. Draco suspected that Lucius had chosen this as his son's introductory meeting because of the sheer size of it. He wanted to show Draco the spectacular side, the impressive side, before he let him see anything else.

The Dark Lord had spoken, and the people, the congregation, had listened to the man they regarded as their god. Towards the end of his speech, or lecture, or sermon, he could have snapped his fingers and they would all have jumped off the cliff into the black lake for him, or impaled themselves on swords, and they would have felt it an honour.

Draco had almost been ready to do it, too. Almost.

In the evening he sat at the banquet table, where candlelight glittered in glass and silver and was reflected off stiff, snow-white linen. Absent-mindedly, but politely, he conversed with the young women on either side of him and the rather sinister man opposite, while his eyes kept going to the Dark Lord at the High Table.

It wasn't only Lord Voldemort's magical powers that made him a man to fear. It was also psychology, his ability to manipulate. Draco felt that this wizard could make almost anyone do almost anything and believe they were doing it of their own personal conviction. 

Draco had always looked up to Lucius, seen him as the perfect combination of strength, intelligence, good looks and good taste, a role model, an ideal to work towards. He had always been more than prepared to adopt his father's views and opinions as his own. As a child, he had done it without thinking. Perhaps all children do. But Draco was not a child any more, and the image of Lucius as a tower of strength had been seriously damaged today. 

Draco was sure Lucius had aimed to impress his son by so obviously being one of the most favoured followers of the Dark Lord, one who had his confidence. But Lucius had been the Dark Lord's right hand for so long that he had ceased to recognise his own subservience. Perhaps he had made a subconscious choice to forget about it and only retain the image of himself as a man of power. He disregarded the fact that he only had power because Voldemort chose to give it to him. 

Draco saw his father's subservience clearly, and he did not find it attractive. He watched Lucius practically bow down in front of the Dark Lord to let his forehead touch the hem of his robes, to kiss the toe of his already shiny boot, if only figuratively. And the Lord himself looked down at the back of his bowed head with a kind of amused contempt that Lucius did not see, and Draco was not meant to see. The entire scene made Draco want to be sick.

He had always seen his father as a leader. Lucius Malfoy was the head of the family, the one who made the decisions about his son's education and future, who handled the family's financial matters and the overall running of Malfoy Manor and other property. His wife shared the responsibility for their son and for the servants, but it was Lucius who made the important, strategic decisions and who had always decided on means of punishment. He was also usually the one to execute it. 

It was obvious that the staff at Malfoy Manor both admired and feared their master. Draco had always been proud of this, proud of him. He had wanted to be like his father. It had been the ultimate goal. Wealth, respect and power. The preservation of the natural superiority their pure bloodline gave them.

And now, as Draco smiled politely into the dark eyes of pureblood beauty Elizabeth Lestrange, he wondered what had frightened and disgusted him the most today: Lord Voldemort's strength or his father's weakness.

* * *

Elizabeth usually knew what she wanted. And she was persistent.

She was three years older than Draco Malfoy, and she suspected she ought to feel embarrassed about her infatuation with him. But she couldn't help it. She wanted to lick him like an icicle and break him into a thousand shiny pieces.

He had changed a lot from the last time she saw him, two years ago. He had still been a boy then, fifteen and insufferably boastful. A little puppyish, as if different parts of his body and face had grown at their own separate pace and were out of sync. It's not uncommon in pre-teens or young teenagers – Elizabeth remembered her own disproportionately long legs and large hands and feet when she was twelve. But Draco had obviously been a late developer, and he had somehow looked as if he had been put together from spare parts. High quality parts, of course. You could see the promise of beauty.

Now, everything had been pulled together and the promise fulfilled. He had grown much taller, and both his body and his face were harmonious and calm. The slight, puppy-like clumsiness had gone completely, and he moved smoothly and with something that certainly was assurance but could also perhaps be described as dignity. His very blond hair was straight and sleek as it had always been, his skin flawless and very pale. He was quiet, and the expression on his face and in his eyes had changed from general adolescent truculence to a kind of sharply observant integrity.

There was power; she could tell. She always knew about power.

It was obvious that he was worried about something this evening. But so far, it hadn't stopped him from being both attentive and charming towards her, even if the attention had perhaps been slightly impersonal or automatic. It showed his good breeding. He was definitely someone she would consider as a future husband. She was twenty, old enough to think along these lines.

He found her beautiful; she could see it. And why shouldn't he? So many others did. 

Towards the end of the dinner, his eyes strayed more frequently to the High Table, and it made her curious. There were several beautiful women there, and after a while Elizabeth had to follow his gaze to see who it was he kept looking at like that. And she found that the object of his interest was no woman, but Lord Voldemort himself. 

Somehow this impressed her. That Draco Malfoy was bold enough to search the eyes of the Dark Lord, while still remaining polite and attentive towards her.

After dinner, he danced with her, and she lured him out into the garden with an excuse that was as simple as it was classical. She was too warm... she was feeling a bit dizzy after the wine and the dancing... she thought she'd feel better if she had some fresh air.

In the garden, she pretended to look at the faint summer stars, at the roses that seemed to float ghostly in the dark, at the reflection of the half-moon in the lake. But all she was aware of was _him_. Draco Malfoy dominated her senses in a way she had never experienced before, with anyone. She had to get him to kiss her. This evening wouldn't live up to its promise until she felt that slightly curling mouth against her own.

He understood enough to know what was expected of him. And, besides, he was attracted to her. Of course he was. Most men were. Her hair was dark and shiny and curled just right; it fell in soft waves around her face without ever becoming frizzy. She had a straight nose and soft, full lips, and eyes large and dark enough for even the most world-weary lover to want to immerse himself in them.

Draco Malfoy kissed her delicately and surprisingly tentatively, but she reminded herself that he was only seventeen and could hardly be expected to be an expert. His tongue was as polite as the rest of him, the body that pressed her up against a tree trunk was slim and soft and hard and, after a while, insistent. The warmth of him paradoxically made her shiver. Her long legs trembled under her as his hands came under her robes and his fingers bunched up the thin, filmy fabric of her dress. They slid along her thigh, telling her how silky her skin was. When his fingertips reached the lacy edge of her underwear she was suddenly afraid that he would notice the telltale dampness, and she forced herself to whisper no, despite the cries of yes, yes, yes her body made.

He let her go and laughed. Her skirt fell back down to cover her thighs, and he kissed her again, full on the lips, but without meeting her tongue with his. Then he turned abruptly, and she watched him walk up the garden to rejoin the party, leaving her leaning against the rough tree trunk, hot and trembling and insulted, sobbing drily to herself for reasons she wasn't quite clear on.

He had been a perfect gentleman, but had still treated her like a slut. She wasn't sure what that said about him, or about herself. Perhaps especially about herself. She only knew that she didn't want to know.

* * *

A cold, lonely little wind blew down the quiet street. It was a residential area, with sprawling, well-kept gardens and largish houses, peacefully asleep in the late summer evening. Toys were spread over lawns, children's bikes leaning against walls. Pruned trees and hedged-in security. The choice between freedom and stability long since made. Surprises, good or bad, rarely came to this street.

The Muggle woman who opened the door was beautiful in a quiet way, with shoulder-length fair hair and steady blue eyes. She looked at them, her face shifting from surprise to worry, and then to fear. Five men in dark robes; five strangers at her front door late at night. But she didn't step back. 

"Yes?" she said, and her voice was steady, too.

But no one replied. The Dark Lord made a small gesture, and the men entered the house, prosaically, sweeping the woman with them into the dark rooms.

Her face was very white now in the light from the Lumos-lit wand, and it was obvious their silence scared her almost as much as their presence did. She tried to talk to them, get a response from them, but still no one replied. She pleaded with them. They only stood around her looking at her, some of them with small, anticipatory smiles on their faces. They were hardly human any more, and she could feel it.

"Who are you? What do you want? Please don't hurt me. Please don't. I have a daughter. Please, for her sake. Don't hurt me."

Finally, one of them spoke.

"Will she do, my lord?"

The Dark Lord's eyes burned red in the dim light, and the woman sank to her knees in front of him, so frightened she all but lost consciousness.

"No.... please... " she repeated with her head bowed, unable to meet his eyes. "Please let me go. For my daughter. Please don't hurt me."

But her tone of voice told them that she knew by now. She knew that they would, indeed, hurt her very much. And their smiles would only widen while they did it.

*Oh, yes," Lord Voldemort said with soft satisfaction. "She will do."

* * *

They took her back to Malfoy Manor, and Draco was present when they killed her. He didn't take part in the act itself; had he wanted to, they would have stopped him. He was too young and too inexperienced, and it was a process that demanded precision.

He watched as rhythmical spurts of blood from her throat decorated the white wall with dark red arcs, each one lower and shorter than the previous one as the pressure weakened with her heartbeat, until the spurts had died down and her blood dripped from the table where she was lying onto the stone floor. 

No one had said a word, but the look on the men's faces was ecstatic, as if they had just watched something glorious, the answer to all their questions, the promise of power ahead of them.

One of them signalled to Draco to come up to him where he knelt by the spreading puddle of blood below the woman's head. Draco's head was spinning, and he thought his own breathing echoed around the room. The smell of blood and human death filled his nostrils like thick smoke, and he thought he was either going to throw up or pass out, or possibly both. But he managed to take the few steps up to the man, who dipped his finger into the puddle and smeared the still warm blood onto Draco's forehead, both his cheeks and his chin. Waves of nausea washed through him, but he didn't move.

"Take off your robes."

He did so, mutely, aware of the men's eyes directed at him. They were expectant. It was obvious that something was going to happen, something to do with him, but he had no idea what it was. He just knew somewhere, deep down, that he didn't want it to happen, and never had.

The Dark Lord entered the room with Lucius Malfoy. Draco knew immediately that they had been watching the ceremony, without knowing how he knew or how they had done it. Their faces were alight with something akin to sexual exaltation. Lucius stopped by the door and gave his son an approving nod and a tight-lipped, excited smile.

__

He is proud of me. He's even moved. He enjoys the sight of blood on my face.

Lord Voldemort came up to Draco, stopped only a foot away from him. He looked him up and down, and the red eyes sent a flame of fear searing through Draco. He began to tremble. 

"Take your clothes off," the Dark Lord said, the soft hoarseness of his voice like an unpleasant, clinging caress. 

Draco went rigid. His hands wouldn't work. His fingers wouldn't. He didn't want to be stared at by these men. He didn't want them to stare at his naked body in front of his father. And most of all, he couldn't bear to be naked under those avid, red eyes.

"Don't be alarmed." The hoarse voice was laughing now, a wheeze that made it even more unpleasantly caressing. "You are a beautiful boy. There is no need to be shy. Take your clothes off and let us look at you."

Draco knew there had been an unspoken spell hidden somewhere among those words, because his fingers began to work all by themselves, without his collaboration, against his will. One by one, his garments fell into a pile next to him, until he stood naked beside the dead woman. His skin was even paler than hers, an almost fluorescent white in the candlelight.

The Dark Lord's eyes slid slowly from Draco's face over his throat, shoulders, chest, arms, stomach... rested on his hipbone. And he smiled; the red eyes smiled.

"That is a beautiful tattoo, my boy." 

He stretched out his hand; his eyes riveted on the taut, silvery skin. His fingertip touched Draco, light as a feather as it followed the little flower tattoo. Caressed it while the red eyes devoured it.

Draco bit his tongue to stop himself from screaming. He had never felt anything like that touch. The hand was cold as ice but sent flames through his body. The touch was poison. It was dragon fire and burning ice. It filled his entire being with hot white fear and revulsion, an overwhelming impulse to run. But it also triggered a reaction that made him so ashamed and embarrassed it bordered on panic: He was aroused.

They could all see his physical reaction. He was naked in front of their eyes; there was no hiding it. And they all began to smile. His father smiled too, and his smile held something that looked like pride. Tears of confusion and humiliation stung Draco's eyes. He had no idea what was expected of him. But as the painful embarrassment slowly began to ease, he looked at their faces. And he realised from the approval he saw, and from the atmosphere in the room, that he had reacted the right way. This was how it was supposed to be, what was supposed to happen. He had neatly followed a set of rules he hadn't even been aware of.

The threat of tears was averted now, and he breathed again. The Dark Lord was still smiling as his eyes took in the rest of Draco's body.

"Turn around."

Draco turned in silence. The red eyes licked his back like flames, but he gritted his teeth and didn't make a sound. 

"I will finish the blooding now, Draco," Lord Voldemort said, satisfaction like a smooth undercurrent in his voice. "It will hurt a little, but it will be worth it."

Draco stared straight ahead of him. If prepared, he could take pain as well as anyone in this room. He clenched his teeth and balled his hands into fists. He knew rather than heard that the Dark Lord dipped his finger into the puddle of blood and whispered something. Then he felt the hot, cold, poisonous touch on his tailbone, just above his buttocks. And the pain came. It was short and intense and searing. It was only a finger touching skin but it left a needlepoint of pain that spread and expanded, like a flower bud opening to a scorching sun.

And then it was over. There was only a dull pain, mutedly throbbing in time with his pulse. A dark, soft, appreciative murmur of voices moved across the room like a wave.

"You can get dressed now," the Dark Lord said, dismissively, as if he had lost interest.

Draco put his clothes back on with trembling fingers, his eyes avoiding the dead, naked woman. The tense atmosphere was broken, and the men moved around the room, talking, smiling, preparing to go to dinner. Draco hoped he wasn't expected to go. He still felt a bit nauseous, and above all he was deathly tired.

Lucius came up to him and placed a heavy hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently.

"You've made me very proud of you tonight, Draco," he said.

Draco's tired eyes took in his father's haughty face, the aquiline nose, the grey eyes, the mouth with its curling corners. He had waited all his life to hear those words, but now that they were finally spoken, he could take no satisfaction or joy in them. He felt nothing; he was exhausted. He made no response because there was nothing to say.

"If you don't want to come to dinner, we will all understand," Lucius said in a low, almost conspiratorial voice. "Being blooded is a draining process. Everyone here has been through it. You did very well, and it's a beautiful flame, by far the most beautiful one I've seen. If you want to go back to your room, that's fine."

__

Flame...?

"Yes," Draco managed to say. "Yes, if I could please be excused...? I think I would like to... sleep."

Lucius squeezed his shoulder again.

"Be sure to remember your dreams. They could be significant."

Draco wandered slowly back to his room, half of his mind already in a dream, a colourless dream. He barely noticed the halls and corridors and rooms he passed on the way. Portraits whispered and turned their heads to follow him with their eyes as he walked by, as if they could sense what had happened.

__

How come everyone knows except me?

When he fell into bed, too exhausted to take off more than his shoes and his robes, Lucius' voice echoed through his head:

"Be sure to remember your dreams."

And then he slept, despite the dull throbbing pain that wouldn't leave him.

* * *

Draco dreamt of snow.

At first the dream was blue and white and free, filled with white plains and space and crisp air. Then red flowers began to push through the snow. When he got closer, he realised they weren't flowers but flames, small fires that made the snow melt and revealed dark mud underneath. The fires burned until all the snow was gone, and light turned to darkness, pinpointed with flames.

And Draco was frightened. There was nothing threatening here, nothing that the eye could see, but he ran in a panic, flames burning his feet.

He was looking for something, searching desperately, knowing that if he didn't find it, he would be lost here in the darkness forever. But he didn't know what he was looking for.

Then there was water. The darkness didn't go away, but the water was cool and soothing after the burning flames, clean and clear after the squelching mud.

Draco swam. Head barely above the surface. Gasping for breath. When his hand met something rough and dry and solid, he woke up.

The darkness in the room felt dusty. His throat was dry and he wanted the water back. It had felt so good. As if he had glided through that cool silky water to finally find something rock solid, something he could trust. Something that would be there for eternity.

The sense of loss was so overwhelming he wanted to cry.

But he was Draco Malfoy, and he was good at fighting tears. So he fought, and turned on his other side, and went back to sleep.

He dreamt of voices. He tried to find his way in the dark while hands groped his body, hot insistent hands whose touch made him feel sick. Every time he saw a light in the distance, he heard a wheezing laugh and the light went out. There was wetness on his face, and he knew it was blood. He fell on his knees. He heard a scream, and suddenly there was light before him. Blood pulsed slowly out of nowhere to paint arcs of dark red on nothing. He tried to scramble back on his feet, but when he reached out for something to support him, his hands met only air. And there was darkness again.

This time, Draco woke up screaming. He stifled his scream in the pillow and had to reach for his wand to get some light, to check the pillow-case for blood. But it was as crisp and clean as the house-elves had left it.

He sank back on the pillows and stared up at the dark ceiling, tried not to remember his dream, tried not to think.

He didn't get back to sleep until it was nearly morning. 

* * *

On his way up from the lake to Malfoy Manor a few days later, Draco walked past the open door to the tropical house and saw his father there with Lord Voldemort. It was dark outside, a soft summer darkness, and the house was lit.

"We must clear this world of mud," he heard the Dark Lord say.

Lucius mumbled something in response. His voice was ingratiating, and Draco felt himself shudder as he lingered just outside the door, at an angle where they wouldn't spot him if they looked up. He knew he wasn't supposed to hear this conversation.

There were some rare amazonica flowers in the Malfoy Victoria House, and the two men had apparently come down here to see them. But being who they were, they couldn't let beauty suffice. They had to combine it with politics, with business. 

"What we need for the magical world is purity. Pure blood, pure ambition, pure power. Cloudy minds must be exterminated. They only breed weakness. Our society, the one that we're going to build, will be superior to anything this world has ever seen, because the mainstay of it will be absolute strength. And death, my dear Lucius – death won't exist. Death is the ultimate weakness."

The Dark Lord stretched out a hand toward the flowers in the basin, broke one of the tough stems just below the surface and held the flower up only an inch or so from Lucius' face. Draco couldn't see the expression in his father's eyes clearly, but even from where he stood, he could sense both the fear and the excitement.

"Yes. Yes, my lord. Death is weakness."

Lord Voldemort began to pull the petals from the flower, one by one, and watched them as they fell. Finally he let the maimed flower drop to the floor, and crushed it under his heel.

"_This_, Malfoy," he said, indicating it with his hand. "_This_ is what it's all about. All those people who have mud in their veins and mud in their brains. The unworthy and the weak. The _mortals_. This is what will happen." 

His eyes flared red, the same flickering red that had made Draco feel sick the first time he saw it, the same flickering red that had scorched him and licked him. Lucius half-turned towards the door, his eyes unseeing and shining with admiration, fear, anticipation... They shone as he saw his own glorious future laid out before him, a future that would never end but stay a future forever.

Lord Voldemort laughed, a low, hoarse, wheezing laugh that was barely audible but crept under Draco's skin and made him shudder violently. He tried to quench it, afraid that the movement would make them notice him.

"This is where the power is. The absolute power. What could be greater than killing death itself?"

And he laughed again, a laugh that made Draco think – _but he is insane. He is insane, and he will drag my father into destruction with him_.

He slowly backed away from the greenhouse and returned to the manor house unnoticed.

He went to bed, but he couldn't sleep. The Dark Lord's laugh rang in his ears the entire night. He tossed and turned and tried to think of a convincing speech to make to his father tomorrow. 

Draco wanted power. Of course he did. He had learnt from Lucius that power was the only thing that counted, the only thing that was real. But he didn't want madness. He didn't want _this_. Lord Voldemort was immensely powerful; there was no doubt about that. He had a following of powerful men. But to Draco, this instant, they all seemed insane, and Draco wanted more from his future than to swear loyalty to a deluded, half-demented old man who thought he could conquer death.

He had to face his father and tell him that he, Draco, was not prepared to do this. Subservience? Not to this. He wanted something far more concrete and tangible than candle-lit rituals and symbolic flower-crushing. 

And he despised himself. He wanted power? How very impressive. And how very plausible, considering the fact that here he was, trembling with fear at the prospect of having to face his father. He didn't want to crawl at the Dark Lord's feet? Well, then perhaps he should have the courage to say so to his face. 

He knew he never would. Never.

He turned on his other side and clamped the pillow over his ear. But the Dark Lord's laugh continued to ring in his head, and refused to be shut out by anything.

* * *

**__**

SEPTEMBER, 1997

The Hogwarts Express left Platform 9 3/4 at eleven o'clock sharp, as usual.

Draco buried his head in his folded cloak and pretended to sleep. He breathed in the smell of wool-kept-in-cedar while Crabbe and Goyle grumbled about his having a window seat if he wasn't going to look out the window anyway. But after a few minutes, the trolley came and they were distracted. A chocolate frog escaped and jumped onto Draco's lap, but he pretended not to notice, or wake up.

Crabbe and Goyle. They were seventeen like himself, they were heavy and broad-shouldered, but in their minds they were still children. What did they know? How could they still be excited about chocolate frogs and enchanted vanilla creams, when they had met the Dark Lord? They had been at the gathering at his country estate. They had seen him; they had met his eyes. But to them it had all been an exciting adventure. They had been delighted with the riches of the table, goggle-eyed over the pretty girls. They had pestered Draco to find out what had happened between him and Elizabeth Lestrange in the garden, and he had played along, been mysterious and let them believe a lot more had happened than really had. 

They were already looking forward to their Dark Mark ceremony, which would take place nearly a year from now. No one received the Dark Mark until they had left school.

Draco was sure they hadn't been blooded, and not entirely sure why he himself had been. At first he had thought it was because his father was one of the men closest to the Dark Lord, and also one of the wealthiest and most powerful, and Draco was expected to follow unquestioningly in his footsteps. As if his choice had been made long ago, and his loyalty, dedication and enthusiasm were taken for granted. But now he wasn't sure.

He wasn't sure of anything.

He had had a long talk with his father, telling him what he had heard in the tropical house, telling him that the Dark Lord's plans were madness. Lucius had been paler than usual, face white with anger, and also, Draco thought, with fear at the thought of Lord Voldemort's reaction to Draco's reluctance to conform. The argument had been vehement, but neither of them had raised his voice. If someone had put an ear to the door of Lucius' study, the voices would possibly have seemed a little agitated, but civil. The argument had lasted over two hours, and Draco was proud to have stood up to his father. Proud not to have been crushed by Lucius' strength. It proved that he had strength of his own, perhaps more than he had thought.

Draco had believed his father would throw him out of the house, but had been surprised at Lucius' willingness to discuss, in spite of his obvious anger. They had settled on a compromise. Draco was on probation while he thought things through. He was not to come home on vacation until he had entered the right path. Lucius would continue to provide his allowance, but it was meager compared to what it used to be. There would be no communication between Draco and his parents until Draco had reached his decision, however long it would take. (Narcissa had paled and started to cry softly when Lucius told her this at dinner, but she had made no protest. She had only stretched out a hand to smooth her son's hair. And Draco had felt more than just a twinge of disappointment – disappointment, and perhaps contempt.) 

Draco was left on his own to try to find his way in life. But he simply didn't believe, the way Lucius did, that there was a choice of two paths only. Well before today, he had decided that his task now was to find alternatives. The Dark Lord was insane. Dumbledore was a fool, but in a different way. There had to be other paths to follow. And if there wasn't – who said you couldn't make your own path through the wilderness?

He had nearly fallen asleep, rocked by the train's movements, but now his eyes pinged open in the darkness under the cloak as he heard his name mentioned in the corridor. Two distinct voices were discussing Quidditch as they passed.

"...don't think Malfoy will pose much of a threat to you this year, either. I'm not saying he's a _bad_ Seeker, but he always relies more on his gear than on talent. Well, I guess that's wise, considering."

A snort of laughter. Weasley.

"You know what Wood always used to say, that a Seeker has to work on his agility as much as on his speed? We've worked out this programme where..."

And Potter.

Suddenly the cloak was too warm, and Draco pulled it off irritably. He caught a glimpse of the two Gryffindor boys as they slowly walked past. Potter looked tanned, and taller than he had been a few months back. 

__

Why do I even notice?

It felt like ages since Draco had thought about Quidditch, or indeed anything, in that easy-going, single-minded way he heard Weasley and Potter talk about it now. He had practised flying, he had practised turns and speed and loops, but lately he hadn't done it to improve his Quidditch skills as much as to take other things off his mind.

He flung the too-warm cloak down on the seat next to him and looked out on the green landscape rushing past, wondering why his face still felt hot. He winced as he heard Potter laugh somewhere in the corridor.

This year was going to be different, in many respects. Different and difficult. Why couldn't things just be simple and straightforward?

Draco clenched his teeth.


	3. Reflections

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Warning: Slash.

A/N:  
This chapter and Chapter 3 have been rewritten and adjusted to the events in OotP.

Thanks, hugs and love to my betas, who must be the most patient people in the world: **Plumeria**, **Darklites**, **Verdant**, **Lowi**, and **Milena Lupin**. **Milena** has also created fantastic art for this chapter. **Verdant** – the zeugmas are dedicated to you, and **Plu** – thanks for the loan of the bat spleens! :)

Thanks to all who reviewed previous versions of chapters, and to all who have encouraged me to continue writing this story.

Author: Penguin

Title: OF SNOW AND DARK WATER

"The sympathetic connextion supposed to exist between a man and the weapon which has wounded him is probably founded on the notion that the blood on the weapon continues to feel with the blood in his body."  
Sir James Frazer, The Golden Bough

CHAPTER 2 - REFLECTIONS

**__**

AUTUMN, 1997

It was their seventh and last year at Hogwarts and they were supposed to be focussing on their studies. Some, like Hermione Granger, did. Others, like Harry Potter, had a harder time concentrating.

He had a hard time sleeping, too. The two were linked together, a snake biting its tail. The less sleep he got, the less he was able to concentrate, and the more he prowled. And the more he prowled, the less he slept.

There was no other word to describe what he did: Prowl. And he was deeply grateful for his Invisibility Cloak which allowed him to do it. He would have gone mad if he'd had to stay in his room all night.

He was also grateful for having his own room. From their sixth year, the students no longer slept in dorms but had rooms of their own. With a bit of luck, if he didn't go out until McGonagall had done her rounds, no one would notice that on most nights his bed was empty for hours.

He imagined Insomnia as a person; a cold, pale lady who silently ruled his world and paid him random visits to demonstrate her power over him. Her first visit hadn't been long after Sirius had died. As if Harry, subconsciously, was afraid to go to sleep – after all, he had seen that terrible things could happen when he was asleep. He could _do_ terrible things.

Absurdly, Harry enjoyed walking around the grounds late at night; he enjoyed the absolute stillness that prevailed. He didn't walk very fast but with a long, smooth stride; it had a meditative quality about it that calmed him. He imagined he could hear the soft, even breathing of people asleep. People who had never met Insomnia and had no idea who she was.

He would stop occasionally to view the silent form of the castle. Hogwarts was home. It had been home ever since he first arrived as a wide-eyed eleven-year-old, still overwhelmed by the amazing revelation that he was a wizard, still bowled over by Hagrid's spectacular rescue of him from the island and by the following visit to Diagon Alley. Still breathless from the adventure of going to Gringott's, trying out a wand, suddenly being the owner of an owl and finding a friend in Ron Weasley. 

And an antagonist in Draco Malfoy.

Hogwarts was the first real home Harry had known. He didn't remember his parents, and his life with the Dursleys didn't count. In fact, his memories of Privet Drive had faded, and they only came back to him in flashes triggered by a noise or a smell. It was all in the past now, anyway. He wouldn't go back to the Dursleys again – the times had proved to be too dangerous, and the Order could no longer spare half an army of people to be his private guard. Also, Harry had had too many people die for him already. He didn't want to risk the lives of oblivious Muggles simply by living among them.

The house at Grimmauld Place was as bleak as ever. In fact, it was worse. It would never be a home. And after Sirius had gone, it was as if the fires in the grates in the House of Black only gave a faint, reddish light, too weak to reach very far from the fireplace, and no warmth at all.

That was how everything felt, with Sirius gone. Darkness and no warmth. 

Now and again, Harry's thoughts wandered to his Aunt Petunia – he was intrigued by the knowledge of the wizarding world she revealed to have had, and also of her connection with Dumbledore. It was strange – he would never have thought he'd want to know anything at all about Aunt Petunia, at least nothing but her memories of his mother. But as he got older, he did begin to wonder. 

Lily and Petunia. How could two sisters be so different? How had Petunia become what she had become? What had made her so rigid and so afraid, and what was the real reason she hated her sister so much, even sixteen years after Lily's death? Was it all jealousy? 

If it was – what a waste. What a waste that anyone with a shred of decency – and Aunt Petunia did, after all, seem to have at least a shred – should have married someone like Vernon Dursley, who was certain to quench that last small flame with his oafish lack of imagination and his hatred of anything that was the slightest bit out of the ordinary.

Harry was sure Uncle Vernon was still muttering about Harry's ingratitude and about the lack of financial compensation for all the years of feeding and clothing a growing boy. Well, he could just give up that thought, once and for all. There would be no compensation from Hogwarts.

Hogwarts... 

Harry let his eyes wander over the castle. The people dreaming inside... Dreaming – or pacing sleeplessly, the few of them who had encountered Insomnia. Sometimes, at night, when he prowled, Harry felt a strange tenderness for them all; a tenderness that was rarely present in the daytime. Probably because at night, they were quiet. No chatter, no admiration, no demands.

In his fantasies he was their angel, strong enough to provide a barrier between them and the outside world, stronger than the protective spells that surrounded the school grounds. Strong enough to be what they all expected him to be. In his fantasies he had the power to protect them against the evil that had uncoiled and was sliding along the outer walls, a gigantic reptile waiting to strike. The shadow of the basilisk half a lifetime ago, but more terrifying even than that.

Well, he had killed that, hadn't he? With the aid of a songbird and an old hat. And his childish faith. 

What was left of that faith now? How strong was his willpower?

Imagination was a blessing and a curse. It thrived on darkness and solitude. At night, when he walked around alone like this, he could almost believe he was the hero they all wanted and expected him to be. In the daylight world he was just Harry, angry and confused, tired and sad, desperately brave with a brittleness he hoped nobody would see or recognise. Tortured by dreams and memories darker than anything most of them could even imagine.

Harry was no optimist by nature, but he had always had a gift for hoping against hope. He had always been brave enough to face the things he was afraid of. But the expectations on him were so high, everyone set such high standards for him, and most of the time he was heavy with fear he wouldn't live up to them.

It was necessary to try to avoid bitterness, but it wasn't easy. There were so many questions to ask, futile questions, and no answers to be had – except perhaps for the prophecy. But that answer was too big, too heavy, too merciless, and in itself created bitterness. Sometimes he didn't even want to reason, he only wanted to rage. He wanted to scream _WHY ME?_ and beat and kick and spit at everything within sight, yell and wail at the unfairness, like a five-year-old would. But bitterness didn't help, no more than screaming and kicking did. Being bitter only affected himself. It made him miserable and didn't solve any problems.

But there was no denying that life _was_ unfair a lot of the time; unfair and cruelly ironic. When he thought back, he knew that all he had ever wanted was to blend in. Not be seen. Not necessarily go with the crowd, but go his own way quietly.

He removed the Invisibility Cloak as he left the castle to go down to the lake. No one would see him here anyway. He sat down on a rock, distractedly throwing pebbles into the water. Memories of his Muggle school came back to him in torn fragments and made him shudder with discomfort. He had been bullied there, verbally and physically. For being such a scrawny little kid. For wearing glasses. For wearing Dudley's cast-offs that he practically drowned in. For not being good at this or for being too good at that. 

Being at home with the Dursleys had been bad, but going to school had been worse. When he hadn't been bored or scared he'd been furious, and the fury had unleashed his magic. He hadn't understood what it was. It had sent him flying up on the roof, or it had made windows shatter or turned rubbish bins upside down over the heads of his tormentors, but he hadn't understood that all this originated from himself, from a power within him. All he had known was that these strange things seemed to happen to him and only him, which was definitely not been a good thing when all you wanted was to blend in and be inconspicuous. Invisible, even. And then he had come to the wizarding world, and suddenly he'd been The Boy Who Lived and The Boy Who Did This and The Boy Who Said That and there hadn't been a chance in hell he would be anonymous or left alone ever again. He was still followed by eyes wherever he went, which was probably one reason why he loved his Invisibility Cloak so much. It was what he had wanted all along, without knowing.

It got worse every year. The attention. The expectations and the demands. And the criticism.

Indirectly, he had caused several people's deaths, including his godfather's. Harry shivered and put the Invisibility Cloak back on, for warmth this time. He had killed people. It hadn't been his wish or intention, but that didn't change the fact. There was no trying to deny it or explain it away – they had died. He couldn't have prevented any of the deaths any more than he could have prevented the deaths of his parents, but perhaps that didn't matter. Harry wasn't entirely sure, and that was part of what kept him awake at night, part of what Insomnia held up before his eyes when he tried to sleep: The guilt, and the gnawing doubt that perhaps there _had_ been something that could have been done. Something to prevent things from happening the way they did. If he hadn't said _that_, if he hadn't gone _there_, if he had worked harder at Occlumency...? His head knew that he wasn't really to blame, but his heart refused to listen.

He got up and stood looking at the full moon for a while; saw it glitter on the surface of the lake. He thought about Remus Lupin, who was back at Hogwarts as a teacher. Right now he would be curled up in a ball on a cushion in his office, beast tamed into mere wolf by a potion. How ironic, Harry thought, that one of the best people he had ever known was also a werewolf. It just showed you that nothing was ever simple, and you needed to be careful about taking things at face value. Harry tried to send warmth and comfort to Lupin in some sort of telepathic wave and smiled a little at himself for being sentimental. But it was one of those nights, one of those soft, sad nights.

Perhaps he could sleep now if he tried. He turned his back on the moonlight on the lake and began to walk back to the castle. Just before he went inside, he stopped and looked at the full moon one last time. Something ached in his chest and obstructed his breathing, something he was unable to identify. A desperate longing for something he couldn't define. Perhaps it was just a plain, simple wish for all this darkness to come to an end.

"Good night," he whispered, but he didn't know to whom.

* * *

Draco lay awake in his room. He had always found it difficult to sleep when there was a full moon, and tonight was no exception. But it wasn't only the moon – he had a lot to think about.

He had been called to Dumbledore's office today. No reason had been given, and a long talk had ensued where nothing was explicitly said. Draco frowned at the memory. Dumbledore had been as annoying as ever with his hints and intimations. Questions had been asked without being asked and advice given without being given. Everything had been so vague it could just as well have existed only in Draco's imagination. But he had tried to play along, and had replied to the never-really-asked questions in the same indefinite manner. Dumbledore was good at these riddle games. No doubt he now knew that something had taken place during the summer holidays, something that involved the Dark Lord, and also that Draco had refused to acquiesce and was more or less banished from his home. 

What annoyed Draco most of all was that he could have sworn Dumbledore had already known. He had only wanted confirmation from Draco himself.

After a while Draco gave up trying to sleep. He got out of bed and climbed up the beautifully carved stepladder he had ordered from a shop in Hogsmeade when he had finally got a room with a window. Actually there were two windows, two small ones almost at ceiling level, which was odd but a great improvement compared to the windowless Slytherin dormitories. Draco always wanted to see what was going on.

Moonlight made everything unreal, undefined, as if the world was either half-finished or about to dissolve. Nothing was certain. On full-moon nights he felt that anything could happen.

He started as he saw a shadow glide out of the deep darkness under a vault and move slowly down towards the lake. The shadow stopped and turned, and as moonlight was briefly reflected on glasses, he saw that it was Potter.

Draco's jaw set.

Harry Potter, blatantly breaking school rules again. Some people were certainly given special treatment at this school. Potter, the Weasel, Granger-the-insufferable – constantly receiving house points for breaking rules and being nosy. Exceptions were always being made for them.

Draco shook himself irritably. 

There was no denying the fact that Potter had been central to Draco's life ever since they'd met in Madam Malkin's robe shop, but it wasn't by choice; it certainly wasn't from liking. Draco still felt the same astonishingly painful mixture of resentment and reluctant appreciation towards Potter that he had always felt; a shadow of the admiration, rage and humiliation that had swept over him on the Hogwarts Express when Potter had refused to take either his proffered hand or his advice. A shadow that had stretched over all their years at school.

A bleak, cold sense of hopelessness, of futility, of inevitability, closed around his heart. He wanted to protest it; he wanted to break its deceptively soft grip.

__

Why does nothing ever change? Why is the focus always on him? Look at us now. I watch him, and he is the one moving. Why do I do it? Why do I accept it? Why does anyone?

It wasn't a new sensation, or a new thought, but the_ why do I accept it_ was less vehement than it had been. It had become more of a real question than the furious banging the wall with his fist that it had been at first.

Draco watched as Potter's dark figure melted into the darkness under the trees and disappeared, and he thought that perhaps he and Potter weren't as different as he used to think. Or as different as Potter apparently thought. They did have things in common, however badly they had always tried to stress their differences. They had both met evil, although in different ways. And in their own way they had both opposed it.

Draco couldn't help wondering how Potter would have acted today, if he had been the one in Dumbledore's office instead of Draco. No doubt Potter would effortlessly have guessed and interpreted the old wizard's hints and riddles. But they knew each other well, of course, and Dumbledore was obviously very fond of Potter – too obviously, and unfairly so. Unfair to the other students. 

__

It's all hypothetical. Dumbledore simply wouldn't have had that kind of conversation with Potter.

Draco closed his eyes and rubbed a hand over his face. He hated confusion. He hated not _knowing_.

And right now, he wasn't sure of anything. Because... the most confusing thing today had been... Dumbledore had somehow made Draco feel... no, it really was ridiculous... but he had made him feel almost... almost _safe_. As if there could really be a place for him here if he wanted it. As if Dumbledore really cared about Draco's welfare, really cared whether Draco joined the Dark Lord or not. Cared on a personal level, not only as a matter of politics or principle. But why should he care? Everyone knew Dumbledore's dislike of Lucius Malfoy. Why should he care what Lucius' son did, if not for the triumph of winning the son over to his own side?

Draco really didn't want to think about it. He didn't even want to try to understand. Dumbledore was a strange man; he always had been. Lucius had often questioned whether Dumbledore was in his right mind, and now he was probably so old he was getting senile.

Draco shifted uneasily and stared into the darkness under the trees. There was no movement now. What was Potter doing out there in the middle of the night, anyway? Did he have problems sleeping, too? Draco would never have imagined Potter suffering from insomnia. He wouldn't have imagined Potter having any problems at all. The Golden Boy. The Boy Who Lived. The boy who was worshipped by everyone without even having to make an effort. Potter kept being praised for things that ultimately were no merit of his own. He hadn't really _done_ anything, had he, that first time he met Lord Voldemort? He had been too young to take any kind of active part in the events. He had just – well, he just hadn't been killed.

Draco straightened up. That was it, really; the core of it. What he hated most about Potter was everything he got for free. The things he got without even trying. People's respect, their admiration, their attention. Exceptions were always made for Potter. Like his being Seeker for his House team in their first year. They had been forbidden to fly and they had done it anyway, Potter and himself. Draco had thrown Longbottom's silly Remembrall through the air and Potter had caught it. And been made Seeker for the Gryffindor team, the youngest Seeker in a century. 

That was the way it had always been. Potter was rewarded for breaking rules, or at least allowed to bend them. Everything Potter did was regarded as sensational.

But Draco had to admit that he, too, felt a certain amount of admiration for Potter, however unwillingly. He admired Potter's strength. But perhaps being strong was easy when you were Harry Potter. Because then you knew there would always be people who loved you and looked up to you, whatever you did. 

Surely Draco couldn't be the only one who felt this way about Potter. He couldn't be the only one to feel this curious mix of resentment and admiration. Perhaps this was how _most_ people felt towards Potter...?

Draco remembered the commotion in their fifth year, when Potter had stubbornly claimed that the Dark Lord had returned. Dumbledore had believed him, of course, but the Minister of Magic, that bumbling idiot Fudge, had not wanted, or dared, to listen. Draco remembered it so well, the silence in the Daily Prophet about anything connected to Lord Voldemort or his followers; the newspaper's campaign to depict Potter as a deluded attention-seeker... the anger in Potter's eyes, and the warm, glowing satisfaction that sat like a small sun in Draco's own chest each time Potter was publicly humiliated... Draco's knowledge that Potter was right, and his triumph, on more than one level, when no one believed the truth.

And now, Draco found he saw Potter's situation from another angle. As he stood there looking out at the strangely liquid, moon-drenched landscape, he began to understand that Potter's situation wasn't an easy one at all. 

What choice had Potter ever had?

Draco's heart was pounding in his chest for no reason he could understand. He frowned and bit his lip, resting a hand against the window frame. 

The dark figure out there had looked so lonely. A helpless slant to his shoulders, as if he carried weights too heavy for him and was tired to the bone. But Potter wasn't the kind who ever asked for help, and now Draco thought he understood why. Because if he did ask – who would be able to help him?

* * *

The planning, construction and organisation of the new Hogwarts Academy was a gigantic project. It was surrounded by a vast, advanced security apparatus and a great deal of secrecy. The Steering Committee had held regular meetings at Hogwarts for the past two years, and the construction of the actual buildings was well under way. As it needed to be, since the Academy was to be opened less than a year from now. 

Today's Committee meeting was held in the usual windowless room, which was getting increasingly airless and warm. Dumbledore's initial speech had been short and to the point, presenting the day's agenda with its focus on the intricate system of protective spells and wards that was to surround the Academy. Even the construction site itself was heavily warded and Unplottable, hidden not only from Muggle but also Wizarding view. 

Snape let his eyes wander around the table, critically scanning the meeting participants without too obviously doing so. Oddly, the most noticeable thing about the meetings for the past year had been absence, not presence. Sirius Black's chair had deliberately not been removed from the table after his death. It was still there, to remind them, to let its bare wood and its silence speak to them all. How typical of Dumbledore – a simple, sentimental gesture that proved most effective all the same. 

Snape had disliked Sirius Black intensely and had objected strongly to having him on the Committee at all, even though he had known for a long time about Black's innocence to the charges against him. But when Snape looked at that empty chair, he felt a strange chill. It certainly wasn't loss or grief or anything even remotely resembling pity – he had never harboured a single emotion towards Sirius Black that was warm enough to elicit those feelings. And if that chill was fear, fear of darkness and the power of evil, he would do best not to think about it. He was already doing all he could in their struggle against the dark side, and no one could deny that he could do a lot, more than most. 

Snape forced his eyes away from the empty chair and let his gaze rest for a moment on the attentive figure of Remus Lupin, in robes with the Hogwarts crest. Lupin's face was tired and drawn, but awake. _He_ probably grieved for Black, and he didn't seem to have recovered fully after the latest full moon. Dumbledore was an excellent man in many ways, sentimental or not, but sometimes his judgement was sadly skewed. A werewolf on the Committee was no recommendation for parents to send their offspring to the Academy. As for Lupin's role at Hogwarts School, the same went for a werewolf on the staff. But despite Snape's deep and genuine dislike of the man, he had grudgingly had to admit that Lupin was intelligent, and an acceptable teacher. Their renewed acquaintance, forced by their presence on the Hogwarts faculty and by Snape being Lupin's potion provider, had led to a kind of truce even if it would never lead to friendship.

Next to Lupin was little Flitwick, whose chin just barely reached above the table in spite of his sitting on two cushions. On Flitwicks' other side was Madam Hill, a tall, elegant witch from the Ministry's Security Charms department. She had miraculously proved to be both efficient and intelligent, qualities not generally found in Ministry employees. Beside her sat a nondescript man named Kelly from the International Board of Magical Education. Then there was Dr. Jones, who, as head of the Treatment of Dark Injuries unit at St Mungo's, had been brought in to consult on the Academy's Mediwizardry programme. 

Finally, facing his audience and drawing unintelligible sketches on the blackboard, was the current speaker, that conceited idiot Browne from the Ministry. Merlin alone knew what obscure position he held there. Knowing him, he had probably made it known several times over, but Snape usually managed to tune him out. 

He wished he could do it now. He stifled a yawn and a fervent wish to cast a Silencing spell on the man. Browne shouldn't be given permission to speak, ever. Once he had it, he bored you to tears. It was the third time he'd gone over the description of the protective spells now, with slight variations, basking in his own alleged cleverness. Trying to take credit for it all, although everyone present knew that it was mostly the work of Dumbledore, Flitwick and Madam Hill. 

Merlin, would the man never finish? _May his tongue rot in his mouth. A healthy dose of Putridus potion would do the trick. _Snape had to repress a smirk at the thought. _Failing that, perhaps a few days in the hospital wing with Veritaserum administered every hour...? At least it would put an end to the mindless bragging._

"...will stop intruders halfway across the lake," Browne was saying. "Attempts to Apparate in or out will have no effect – we're using extended and more complex and efficient versions of the Apparating blockers that are used here at Hogwarts School. There will be channels to allow owl traffic, but they will be few and heavily protected by scanning spells and hex sensors, stopping owls carrying anything that is not perfectly clean and innocent." He looked around with that unbearably self-congratulating expression that always reminded Snape of Lockhart (may his confused soul be at rest at St. Mungo's). "Any questions?" When no questions came, having all been asked during the first round, he said: "Well, then, I thank you for your time," on a particularly irritating, triumphant note, and finally sat down.

"Thank you for that detailed account, Mr Browne," Dumbledore said with his usual mild irony. "Now I suggest we all go over to inspect the progress on site. As we have just had explained to us, there will be no access to the Academy by Floo system once the whole physical and magical structure is in place. But at present there is a single route that can be opened for occasions like this one. "The Academy" will be sufficient as a directional command. It will take you to the Main Library." 

He gestured towards the generously proportioned fireplace, and one by one, the meeting participants began to step in and disappear in green flames. 

* * *

It was a clear morning with glorious colours, sky washed clean and postcard blue and trees like flames. The stands were buzzing with excitement as usual, but this was Gryffindor vs. Ravenclaw, and the general atmosphere was less charged than it would have been at a Gryffindor vs. Slytherin match. It would probably be a fairly easy game for the Gryffindor team, Harry thought. The Ravenclaw Chasers were not at all bad, but the team hadn't managed to find a really good Seeker since Cho had resigned after her sixth year. 

Harry adjusted his grip on the broom as he hovered over the pitch. The air was crisp and chilly, with gusts of wind whipping colour into his cheeks. He watched the game take on its own pace below him, watched it billow back and forth while he soared like a bird of prey above the clamour. 

A Hufflepuff fifth-year named Summers had taken over the role of commentator after Lee Jordan, and his magnified voice boomed through the air: "Ravenclaw Beater Terry Boot comes to the rescue of Chaser Mandy Brocklehurst as she's nearly knocked off her broom by a Bludger... No glimpse of the Snitch yet... The Seekers are hovering... good view from up there..."

Harry still loved Quidditch as passionately as he had from the very beginning. It was the best thing there was when it came to forgetting his problems, forgetting about the threats against Hogwarts and himself, forgetting about the increasing number of worrying reports about attacks on Muggle-borns. Quidditch was a much better diversion than talking to Hermione or playing chess or Exploding Snap with Ron. 

It provided a small universe of its own, with its own inherent rules and hierarchies and roles, its own excitement and events. A small, finite world to take refuge in when his head hurt from trying to make sense of things and the real world was turning into chaos.

"And Gryffindor Chaser Ginny Weasley has the Quaffle... Aah – she's being attacked by two Ravenclaw Chasers... but she – ooh, Woollongong Shimmy! Woollongong Shimmy! And Gryffindor scores!"

Summers, clearly impressed, was yelling at the top of his voice. Harry shouted congratulations to Ginny who whizzed past below him, grinning madly. 

The game gathered speed. Harry ducked for a Bludger and kept a wary eye on the Ravenclaw Seeker while he scanned the vicinity for the Snitch. He cut smoothly through clear air that was sharp with the first bite of frost. He watched the upturned faces below, like flowers opening to the sun, turning this way and that as if swayed by the wind. 

And then he caught sight of a face, turned upwards like the others, all by itself on an unused part of the stands. Harry stopped and his thoughts ground to a halt. This face wasn't part of the crowd, never part of the crowd. It was one he had been forced to take notice of ever since they were children. A pale, pointed face with strange, hostile grey eyes that had been following him for years, following him wherever he went. 

If the upturned faces were flowers, this was the whitest one of them all, white in a way that would always single it out, even when it was one in the crowd. 

There – ! Harry was jerked out of his reverie by a flash of gold at the edge of his field of vision. He felt the familiar, hot rush of adrenaline as he made a sharp turn and began the chase. Air sang in his ears and whipped his face. The Ravenclaw Seeker was way over at the other side of the pitch and went into desperate pursuit when she realised that the Snitch had been spotted. But Harry knew she was too far away. The game was won, and pure wild joy shot through him. He balanced on the broom to lean forward at a dangerous angle, and after some endlessly long moments where he was practically suspended in thin air, the Snitch thwacked into his palm hard enough to make it sting. He heard wild shouts and cheers rise in a wave and looked down to see wide grins split the faces of his fellow Gryffindors on the stands, and he thought that nothing, nothing could equal this.

Ginny was the first one to reach him. She hugged him madly, beaming.

"You were brilliant, Harry! Just brilliant!"

He hugged her back and smiled into her radiant eyes.

"You weren't so bad yourself, Ginny."

But while the other team members slapped his back and cheered around him, while his eyes and hand held the golden flutter and his ears were washed by waves of excited shouts from the audience, Harry's mind still lingered on the image of that one face. The one that was whiter than all the others and never part of the crowd.

* * *

The image stayed with Harry all day and all through the small, illicit party held in Dean's room in the evening, after the official celebration in the Common Room. He was a bit drunk, but it didn't help; it only made him tetchy and irritable.

"But you should _see_ them! Ask Diarmuid O'Reilly to borrow his Omnioculars, and play the last ten minutes of the game against the Kenmare Kestrels in slow motion. That'll be enough to shut you up."

Ron had launched into his favourite subject again. The Arklow Arrows were an Irish team that had recently begun to rise like a bright sun in the Quidditch sky and were Ron's new object of worship, to the point where he was ready to abandon his great childhood love, the Chudley Cannons. 

After a while Harry couldn't stand his enthusiastic lecturing any longer, or the heat or the guffawing. His head was buzzing with alcohol and noise and he needed to clear his thoughts. He got up from Dean's only chair and headed for the door, brushing the comments aside, both Ron's concerned questions and Seamus' gleeful remarks about low alcohol tolerance. He managed to give them a smile before he fled.

He went down stairs and along corridors and finally stopped on the steps outside the main front doors, desperately filling his lungs with cold evening air. What the hell was wrong with him? Unable to enjoy a bit of drinking with the lads because he was thinking about _Malfoy_? He had thought it would go away, but it only seemed to get worse. It was just so _wrong_. As if he didn't have enough to think about. Serious things. _Real_ things. He should be using his energy on those.

Malfoy wasn't worth the time of day; never had been. He was the wrong person to be interested in for any other reason than keeping an eye on him for caution. The wrong person for everything.

Interested in, indeed.

Harry's hands were shaking and, not for the first time, he wished he had acquired the old Muggle habit of smoking. It gave you something to do with your hands when you didn't know what to do with them.

He went down the steps and began to wander slowly and aimlessly around the gardens, the image of Malfoy's lonely figure on the stands still in his head. After a while he began to notice how cold it was, but he didn't want to go back inside for his cloak. What was that warming spell Hermione had used in the dungeons the other day...? And did he have his wand with him? Oh, yes, he had. God, he really must be a bit drunk. 

"_Calida_."

A soft warmth crept around him like a woollen blanket as he continued walking. It was very dark, so dark that he didn't notice the cat that suddenly darted across the path in front of his feet and very nearly tripped him. The next moment, McGonagall stood in front of him.

"_Lumos_."

Her voice and her face were stern as always, but her eyes were worried.

"What are you doing out here at this hour, Potter? Why aren't you at the party?"

"Er... party? I..."

"Don't be ridiculous, Potter. Of course I know there's a party going on. You'd have to be deaf and blind not to. I'll break it up if it gets too rowdy, or when it's getting too late in the evening." There was a shadow of a smile on her face. "Which will be soon, I may add. And you haven't answered my question. What are you doing out here?"

"I just needed some air, Professor."

She studied his face closely in the light from her wand and didn't seem reassured by what she saw.

"Is something worrying you, Potter?"

__

Oh, no, Professor McGonagall. 

The man who murdered my parents and wants to take over the world is trying to find me and kill me, not caring whoever else he'll happen to kill along the way. I can't sleep. When I do sleep, I have bad dreams. I worry that I won't catch the Snitch next time and will disappoint everyone. I miss Sirius; I think about him every day. And now, to top it all, Malfoy is invading my brain.

So what could I possibly be worried about? Everything's just fine.

"No, Professor. I just needed to breathe."

"Very well, Potter, but you should go back inside now. And tell your classmates to break up the party before lights out. I want to see everyone in their own room when I do the rounds."

"Yes, Professor."

Harry sighed, turned around and walked back to the castle. He really didn't want to go back to Dean's room, to Butterbeer and body odour, bad jokes and loud laughter. He just wanted to go to bed.

"Snidget wings," he said wearily to the Fat Lady.

He went inside and was surrounded by soft light and warmth, laced with the smell of woodsmoke from the fireplace. The image of Malfoy's face still danced in his head. He wasn't sure, but he thought it was laughing.

* * *

Harry slept well that night, despite Malfoy and alcohol. The next day was Sunday and he woke up early, feeling better than he had for a long time. He went for a run, revelling in the glorious chilly morning sunshine. When he came back, he sang in the shower and swatted Seamus with a damp towel for calling him a rubbish singer and complaining that his sensitive Irish ears hurt. At breakfast in the Great Hall, Harry entertained his fellow Gryffindors with a Rita Skeeter impersonation and was moved by his classmates' obvious relief at seeing him happy. A relief that made some of them overdo their mirth slightly. Ron choked on his pumpkin juice and had to be yanked up from his seat and slapped on the back.

But while everyone grinned at the red-faced, coughing Ron, Harry's gaze wandered over to the Slytherin table. Some of the other Slytherins had turned around to see what was going on with the Gryffindors, but Malfoy's head was bent down as he poked at something on his plate with his fork.

Harry's thoughts seemed to stop, and the noise around him receded.

Silence. It seemed to have become a theme in his life. A sudden silence in his head, silence around him in a crowd, the silence he walked through at night. And the silence that seemed to surround Malfoy.

Because Malfoy didn't seem to speak much to anyone these days, and certainly not to Harry. A couple of times, late at night, Harry had seen him fly all on his own, circling the Quidditch pitch and getting dangerously close to the Forest. It didn't look as if he flew for practice or even for pleasure – he just looked very lonely. So lonely it was almost painful to watch. He had stopped having Crabbe and Goyle at his heels at all times. He very rarely got owls. When the mail arrived, he just looked down at his plate and quietly finished his breakfast while people around him opened parcels and read aloud from letters and commented on the Daily Prophet's front page news. Like now.

But Draco Malfoy had a position that allowed him to get away with a good deal of odd behaviour without getting whispered about. Perhaps he wasn't the natural leader of Slytherin House any longer, but if he wasn't it had been entirely his own choice; no one had stepped in to take his place. The other Slytherins just seemed to leave him alone; in fact they seemed to be a little scared of him. It was as if he were surrounded by a vacuum. The others kept their distance. They respected him but they didn't understand him.

Harry's eyes had lingered thoughtfully on Malfoy's bent head, watching it without really seeing it. When Malfoy looked up, he was unprepared. Their eyes met, and even though they only looked at each other for a moment, Harry felt that silence again. It was as if the entire Hall had gone quiet. All movements stopped. His heart seemed to stop. 

Then Malfoy lowered his eyes. Soon after, he got up and left the Hall. He took the silence with him, and everything was back to normal. 

* * *

But Harry had been wrong. Things seemed to refuse to go back to normal.

With Malfoy, "normal" would equal "antagonistic", but there wasn't much left of the former antagonism. What was left was expressed very mildly – Malfoy smirked at Harry being at the receiving end of Snape's sarcasm, and Harry snorted at Draco transfiguring an angelica plant into a coffee pot instead of the crystal decanter it was supposed to be turned into. But apart from that, there was nothing. Nothing but silence.

Harry ought to have been relieved. But instead, the absence of animosity caused an unexpected problem: he actually missed his fights with Malfoy. As simple as that: he missed his enemy. The Malfoy Malevolence had been a constant in his life, something he could always count on, unpleasant as it was. A twisted kind of security.

A safety-valve. When the pressure had become too strong, he had always been able to challenge Malfoy to a verbal duel. It had been a good way to channel aggression and frustration, spitting and hissing and finding ever more venomous comments to throw at each other. But now Harry had to find another outlet. 

It gradually took the form of physical training. Running, fencing, boxing, Quidditch, anything. It occupied more and more of his time. It interfered with his studies, which was unfortunate as this was his final year. But he found that the physical activity was absolutely necessary for him to be able to concentrate at all during lessons. 

He never talked to Malfoy, but they were always watching each other; they practically stared, when they thought the other wasn't looking. Sometimes their eyes met, but never for long. One of them always lowered his eyes, or turned his face away, or left the room. But backing off wasn't in character for either of them, and it made them both grouchy and irritable. 

* * *

Harry was deeply worried about this sudden, weird obsession with Malfoy. He hadn't given this much thought to Malfoy in all their years at Hogwarts taken together. Now he seemed to think about him all the time, and not only during the day – Malfoy was there at night, too, invading his dreams. 

So what did this mean?

Earlier, when a certain object or vision or person had begun to appear and reappear in Harry's thoughts or dreams, it had always been ominous. He had dreamt of bright green light, of snakes, of blood and violence and pain. He had slithered through dark corridors in snake form; he had been inside someone else's head.

But his scar didn't hurt now. He didn't wake up at night with his head throbbing so painfully he had to be sick. His scar wasn't hot to the touch.

So what did it mean? Why was this happening? If there was no connection to Voldemort, what was it then?

Harry had always loathed Malfoy, loathed him for his boasting and his loud obnoxious comments about Mudbloods. Loathed him for his open, unreflective support for the Death Eaters. Malfoy had been a spiteful, spoilt brat who admired his arrogant father to the point of adoration, repeating his views and opinions and throwing them in the face of the other students at every opportunity. As if that would gain him respect. He had always seemed to confuse respect with fear.

And now...

Now there was silence.

There was a look in Malfoy's eyes that Harry couldn't figure out. As if he expected something from Harry, or perhaps was asking for something, or wanted to ask. There was no challenge in his look, as there would have been once – it was questioning, grave, and rather puzzled.

This couldn't come from Voldemort. The signs just weren't there. If it had anything to do with the Death Eaters, if Malfoy's interest in Harry was on their behalf, there was nothing to suggest it.

This didn't make Harry sleep any better. He prowled more than he had ever done. Prowled, and thought, and worried.

* * *

Harry walked along the lake with Ron on a slow, still Saturday afternoon in November. They had just had a fencing lesson, and it hadn't been Ron's day; he was still a bit grumpy. Stones skipped from their hands onto the water, causing irritated squid arms to appear and ripple the smooth, dark surface. The slanting sun was a warm red on their faces, but the air was icily cold. They sat down on a rock.

"At least school is nearly over," Ron was saying. "I can't wait to leave. Just think – no more endless sessions trying to read tea leaves. And no more chopping bat spleens in the dungeons just after breakfast." He flung a pebble into the lake as if it had bitten him. "I want to go out to Charlie in Romania next summer. He says he can probably fix something for me there. They're trying to find ways to use dragons, or at least dragon fire, for defence. All this nonsense they're cramming into our heads here... History of Magic... Divination. I want to do something _real_."

This was unsurprising – Ron had never been very theoretically-minded. Harry nodded vaguely, finding it difficult to concentrate. It wasn't that he was uninterested in what Ron had to say. What to do after leaving school was a hot topic. It was also one that Harry had actively avoided thinking about, because it scared him. He didn't want his Hogwarts years to be at an end – he felt like a baby bird about to be pushed out of the nest. Did he even _have_ a future? When he tried to look forward, he only saw Voldemort.

He was distracted in his replies, but Ron was too caught up in the subject of dragons now to notice the vagueness. 

There was a distinct reason for Harry's distraction, and it wasn't just his worry about the future: He knew he was being watched. He could feel it; he had felt it the whole time they had walked along the lake. It made the skin on his back tingle, and it wasn't entirely unpleasant.

When he turned around, he saw an immobile figure under one of the old chestnut trees further up in the garden. He couldn't see the features clearly, but there was no mistaking the blond hair. The figure didn't move and Harry turned back to Ron, even less able to concentrate now. 

He looked down on the smooth, flat stone in his hand, and wished that everything in his life could be as smooth, as simple, as beautifully uncomplicated. He stroked it with his thumb before sending it out over the water with a flick of his wrist. It skipped once, twice, three times before it sank. 

Harry watched it sink and knew that the silent figure under the tree was watching, too.

* * *

**__**

DECEMBER, 1997

It was a Saturday morning just before Christmas, and a slow river of voices floated and rippled through the Great Hall. The Christmas decorations were as fantastic as always, but Harry didn't take them in. He just sat down at the Gryffindor table and helped himself to some toast.

His loneliness only seemed to grow.

The other students were getting into the Christmas spirit. Many of them were going to Hogsmeade today to buy presents, and they were looking forward to going home to their families. Harry was going to Grimmauld Place, to celebrate Christmas with the only family he had now – the Order. Tonks would be there, Lupin, the Weasleys... They were people he loved and respected, so where was his enthusiasm? He felt guilty towards them for not being as expectant as he ought to be. He _did_ want to go; he just seemed unable to feel enthusiastic about anything any more. Quidditch was still the glorious exception, but there was no Quidditch at the moment.

There was an ongoing, excited discussion among the final-year students about future plans, what to do after leaving school – everyone seemed to have grand plans, but Harry never joined the discussion. What would be the point? He felt he didn't have much choice about his future – Voldemort had decided it for him sixteen years ago. And then he hated Voldemort as much for having stolen his life as for anything else. The strength of feeling scared him. He hadn't believed himself capable of that kind of white-hot hate.

It also made him ashamed, because it implied that he wished this burden had been placed on Neville instead of on himself. How would Neville have carried it? How would he have handled it? Would he have coped? And at that point, Harry's feeling of guilt and shame dug even deeper into him, because he obviously thought himself better than Neville. He saw himself as stronger and more capable. What right did he have to do that? He glanced guiltily at Neville, who was heaping bacon and mushrooms on his plate and grinning at something Seamus had said.

Moreover, the budding love between Ron and Hermione had finally begun to blossom after a long series of misunderstandings and attempts at denial from both parties. While he was very happy for them, he also inevitably felt left out.

Harry had gone to bed early the previous night, preferring sleep to brooding. And he _had_ slept, for once. 

So while his best friends made plans, sneaked off to meet, shared close spaces and exchanged endearments and saliva, Harry slept. He knew he could have had company if he had wanted it, but he wasn't interested. It worried him that he wasn't interested in much at all, that he seemed to be drained of energy. The only person who could attract his interest was Malfoy. 

But they still didn't talk. They didn't seem to get anywhere. 

Harry let his eyes wander over to the Slytherin table while he waited for his scalding hot tea to cool. Malfoy sat with his head slightly bent as always, eating his breakfast in silence. Crabbe and Goyle started a bread pellet war that made Pansy Parkinson and Millicent Bulstrode scream and giggle, but Malfoy acted as if they simply weren't there.

Harry straightened up. What if people had noticed the way his eyes always sought out Malfoy? He cautiously looked around.

But Ron and Hermione were busy looking deep into each other's eyes and feeding each other bits of food. They wouldn't notice anything short of an Avada Kedavra flash. Seamus was trying to teach Dean and Neville some Irish phrases. It didn't seem to be going very well, but they were laughing a lot. 

Harry closed his eyes. Why couldn't he be happy, too? Why couldn't he just shake off his misery like a wet cloak and laugh with the others? It was Christmas, for Merlin's sake. Bright stars, snowflakes, angels singing. Joy to the world. But here he was, finding it difficult to swallow because tears ached in his throat. How was it possible to feel lonely surrounded by so many people? 

Suddenly he felt someone watching him, and he didn't have to open his eyes to know who it was – he would have known that feeling anywhere. It was as if the grey eyes burned his skin. 

He realised he'd become addicted to having Malfoy's gaze on him. If Malfoy was in the room and didn't look at him, he lost his concentration and began to fidget, as if something was irritatingly wrong and needed to be put right quickly, like a pebble in his shoe.

He opened his eyes, carefully not looking over at the Slytherin table, and poked listlessly at the half-congealed eggs on his plate with his fork. He pushed the plate away with a grimace. Perhaps he should go to Hogsmeade after all. To take his mind off things. Besides, he hadn't bought a single Christmas present yet.

He got up and went to get his cloak.

* * *

The Monday before Christmas, a dark, gloomy day with a few hesitant snowflakes slowly dancing down from a leaden sky, the seventh-year students gathered in the Transfiguration classroom. The Headmaster was there, as well as Professors McGonagall, Snape, and Lupin.

Snape looked out over the students as they filed into the classroom and sat down, unusually quiet. Draco Malfoy's blond head was in the first row, eyebrows drawn together over the straight nose, eyes wary. There was something the matter with the boy, quite apart from whatever trouble he was having with his father. It must have been a serious clash if Lucius had forbidden him to go home during holidays. But Snape could sense there was something else troubling him, too. He had tried to get the boy to talk, but Draco had given as little information as he could within the limits of politeness. He had apparently said more to Dumbledore, but still not much. 

Behind Malfoy was Potter, hair wild as usual, same frown as Malfoy had, eyes fixed on the back of Malfoy's head. And Malfoy was fidgeting, moving uneasily in his seat, as if he knew he was being watched. It looked odd – he wasn't a fidgeter; he usually had a poise few teenagers possessed.

Dumbledore stood, welcomed everyone and broke the news about the Academy. Snape saw Potter's eyes move abruptly from the back of Malfoy's neck to the Headmaster's face, all attention now. Dumbledore informed the students about applications and entrance exams, about the range of subjects (from Practical Divination to History of Magic to Advanced Defence Against the Dark Arts and Mediwizardry) and about the facilities.

Snape watched colour come into Potter's cheeks and realised that there would be no need for Dumbledore to persuade Potter to apply. He was obviously pining to go already. Snape had to hold back a snort. Potter! He certainly knew his role. He would go straight for the Advanced DADA course, like an arrow to a bull's eye. 

It was harder to know what was going on inside Malfoy's head, as it always had been. The eyebrows were still drawn together above his nose, and his eyes were intent on Dumbledore's face. He had regained his poise; hands resting on his thighs.

As Dumbledore rounded off the meeting with some general good advice and the students rose to leave, Snape saw Malfoy's robes brush against Potter's hand. It could only have been a mere whisper of fabric against skin, but Potter winced and flushed. The two boys' eyes met, but Malfoy quickly looked away and went out of the room ahead of Potter.

Snape frowned.

* * *

Harry closed his trunk and put a levitation spell on it to get it down the stairs. In the Common Room he saw some of the younger students chatting in front of the fire; apparently, they weren't leaving for Christmas. Ron was struggling to get his trunk through the portrait hole. 

"Our last Christmas holidays," Ron said, groaning with the effort. "Weird, eh?"

"Oh, don't," Harry said. "You're making me all sentimental and sniffly."

Ron threw him a brief glance, obviously thinking for a moment that Harry was serious before he caught his grin.

"Oh, you'll be going on to the Academy of course," Ron said. "So for you it isn't really the last one anyway."

No, Harry thought, it wouldn't be the last one, provided he was accepted. It was amazing how much better he felt after getting the surprising news about the Academy. The weight on his shoulders and the cold fist around his heart had dissolved and disappeared. If he managed to get his marks up – and he knew he could do it – he wouldn't have to leave, after all. Things would be different, of course; more serious and more demanding. But at least he'd get to stay. He'd get to continue studying. Part of his earlier worry had been insecurity and a feeling of inadequacy. He wasn't properly prepared yet to go out and take on Voldemort single-handedly. He still had so much to learn. And there was no doubt in his mind that the next time he met Voldemort, it would be the last time. It would be the final encounter where one of them would die. One of them – or both. And he wasn't ready.

Ron climbed out through the portrait hole and helped Harry with his trunk.

"You're sure you're not going, though?" asked Harry as they stood in the corridor. "To the Academy, I mean?"

A shadow crossed Ron's face and he looked down at his feet, shaking his head.

"I don't have your talents, Harry. Not to mention Hermione's brains. You both know that. I'm worried enough about my NEWTs – I'd never make it at the Academy."

"Ron, it's not your brains – _you_ know that. It's about how hard you want to work. And you'll be fine with the NEWTs – Hermione's probably going to chain you to a chair in the library with an unbreakable spell for the entire term."

Ron shrugged.

"Yeah. But the Academy... I'm not the intellectual type. And Hermione will have enough with her own work then, without having to coach her thick boyfriend."

He almost spat out the last words. Harry stopped fastening his cloak and gave Ron a worried look. What was the matter? Definitely something wrong here. He had never heard that note of resentment in Ron's voice before, and felt a twinge of guilt at not having noticed anything earlier. He had been too preoccupied with his own obsession with Malfoy. He stretched out a hand and squeezed Ron's shoulder, shaking him a little.

"You're dense enough about girls sometimes – I mean, just look at how long it took you to get together with Hermione." Ron scowled, and Harry grinned. "But for Merlin's sake, you've got a _brain_. Of course you'd be accepted for the Academy if you tried. You don't have to take Arithmancy. There are other subjects."

"Yeah, I guess. So what are you going to take?"

Ron looked up and their eyes met. 

"Advanced Defence Against the Dark Arts," Harry said quietly. 

There was a sudden look of pain in Ron's eyes, and Harry knew it was reflected in his own.

"I needn't have asked," Ron said grimly. "I'm sorry, Harry. Do you mind me asking if you're taking that subject because you want to, or because... because you feel you _have_ to?"

Harry had to swallow. Ron might not be the most eloquent person when it came to complex emotions, but he did understand. He always had. And he had been loyal and supportive and courageous in a way few others had.

"It's not as if I have much choice, is it?" Harry said. "Voldemort's out there, and he wants me dead. It's bloody hard, Ron. I know people will die out there while I shut myself in at the Academy, but there's just so much I don't know yet. If I could focus on DADA for a while... What do _you_ think? Should I just scrap the Academy and go out and meet him now? I know he's waiting for me. And next time we meet, either I'll die – or he will. There's no other way to stop this."

Ron kicked the wall so hard that sand trickled from a crack in the mortar into a little heap on the floor.

"The bloody bastard. I wish he could just be killed like any other human being," he muttered between his teeth. "By anyone. I'd kill him with my bare hands – I really would. I think I'd even enjoy it."

There was an awkward silence between them for a second. So many things wanted to be said, so many words of affection and fear, of hate and friendship and love. None of them were voiced, but both boys felt them in the air.

"I'll really miss you there, Ron," Harry said in a low voice. "And Hermione will, too. Are you really going to Romania?"

"That's what I want to do. Something real, something that matters. Where I can _be_ someone. Charlie's coming home for Christmas and we'll talk more about the details then."

There was nothing more to say for the moment. They put levitation spells on their trunks again and went down the stairs and through the Entrance Hall, where some ghosts drifted past them humming Christmas carols. 

The boys stopped outside the heavy front doors. It was snowing and the gravelled yard was full of students waiting for the thestral-drawn carriages to take them to the train station.

It made Harry depressed again, to think of the number of students who would now be able to see the thestrals. And when they entered open war, there soon wouldn't be a single person, wizard or witch, adult or child, who couldn't see them. He wondered whether Malfoy could.

Ron was turning to look down the driveway. "Looks like it's time to go. Oh, by the way, that bastard... Malfoy..."

Harry nearly jumped, confusedly wondering for a moment whether his thoughts were written on his face. But Ron just went on:

"I heard him tell Goyle that he's going to the Academy, too. Bloody fantastic news, isn't it? You can look forward to another couple of years with Ferret Boy."

There was a silence inside Harry's head again, and a numbness in his hands that wasn't caused by the cold, but they both gave way as Harry began to take in what Ron had said. He shook his head unbelievingly, a grin spreading across his face in spite of everything, and he bent his head down to conceal it. Malfoy would be at the Academy?

The thought really shouldn't make him feel so pleased. It _really_ shouldn't. But it did, and when he climbed into the carriage after Ron, he felt quite cheered.


	4. Movement

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Warning: Slash.

A/N:   
This chapter and Chapter 2 have been rewritten and adjusted to the events in OotP.

Thanks, hugs and lots of love to my betas: **Plumeria**, **Darklites**, **Verdant**, **Lowi**, and **Milena Lupin**! I've made quite a few changes to the text after I had beta comments back, and any mistakes are mine only.

Thanks to all who reviewed previous versions of chapters, and to all who have encouraged me to continue writing this story!

Author: Penguin

Title: OF SNOW AND DARK WATER

"The sympathetic connextion supposed to exist between a man and the weapon which has wounded him is probably founded on the notion that the blood on the weapon continues to feel with the blood in his body."  
Sir James Frazer, The Golden Bough

CHAPTER 3 – Movement

**__**

DECEMBER, 1997

Harry sat in one of the small sitting rooms at the back of the house at 12, Grimmauld Place, huddled in front of the fire with a cup of coffee. Opposite him, in a worn armchair identical to his own, Lupin sat gazing thoughtfully into the flames. He looked very tired, and Harry felt a sudden, surprising wave of gratitude and anxiety, strangely intertwined. He felt very close to Lupin, and he was grateful for the way Lupin had, consciously or not, come to fill some of the space, some of the cold emptiness that Sirius had left behind.

In a way, Lupin was both easier to like and easier to understand than Sirius had been. But no one would ever entirely take Sirius' place. People simply couldn't be replaced. 

"How have you been?" Lupin asked quietly.

Harry looked at his friend, at the firelight dancing over the tired face. It struck him now, as it always had with Sirius, too, how little they really knew each other. Harry trusted Lupin unconditionally, as he had Sirius; with them both, there was a deep feeling of security that few other people gave him. But he didn't know very much about either of them as people, as individuals with their own thoughts and problems, loves and hates. Harry had just begun to know a little about Sirius, about his habits and personal tastes, when he died. But he had never known much about the important things. Almost nothing about Azkaban, for instance, although Sirius had spent a considerable part of his life there. Twelve whole years. 

Harry had to admit to being curious about Azkaban; curious and horrified at the same time, the way people have always found terrible things fascinating. But he had never asked about it – the fact that Sirius kept so silent about it was enough to stop any attempts at probing. Perhaps Sirius had tried to forget or even deny the existence of those hopeless years. But Harry didn't see how something like that could ever be forgotten; not something that had changed your life to the extent it must have done. The memory of it would keep appearing in dreams – just as Harry's own early experiences, ones he didn't even remember, still gave him dreams about sudden darkness torn by screams and sliced open by green light.

Who had Sirius been before he was sent to prison to have life and light sucked out of him by the Dementors? Harry still shuddered at the thought of those cold, claw-fingered shapes with features covered by black hoods; at the memory of the paralysing fear that instantly filled him when they approached. In the pictures Harry had seen from his parents' wedding, Sirius' face had been young and open and unafraid, happy and handsome and laughing. There hadn't been much likeness to the man he had been afterwards, when he had come back to the Order. He had still been handsome, Harry supposed, but in a fierce, dark way – years of suffering had left their traces. That wide smile had only returned in rare glimpses.

It was much the same with Lupin. Harry knew him as a brilliant scholar and an excellent and well-liked teacher. His presence and his role in the Order revealed him as a powerful wizard with ideals and beliefs. But Harry didn't know much about his person – although he did know something about the pain of being different, of being feared, he knew nothing about the real, raw, physical pain of the transformation into werewolf.

"How I've been?" said Harry, mentally returning to the sitting room. "We've talked about me already. You asked me at dinner."

"I mean, how have you _really_ been?" Lupin leant forward slightly in his armchair, his calm brown eyes searching Harry's. "I talk to Dumbledore now and again, Harry. And to McGonagall. They're both worried about you."

__

Of course. The grades again. I will do better when I go back after Christmas; I really will. Now that it matters and has some meaning. I just wish everyone would stop nagging me.

"Oh, my _academic results_," Harry said scathingly, slumping back in his armchair and nearly overturning the coffee cup balanced on the armrest. "Yes, I can see why they're worried. What a disappointment if The Boy Who Lived turned out to be an underachiever. How embarrassing for them."

Lupin sank back in his chair and looked into the fire again. His voice was worried when he said, "Don't be unfair, Harry."

When Harry didn't answer, Lupin went on:

"They _are_ worried about your academic results, of course they are. But you do see it's only for your own sake?" He looked awkward, as if he wanted to apologise for what he was going to say. "We all understand that your bad results lately are a symptom of something else, Harry. We can all see that something is bothering you. We would like to have it cleared up before it's time for your NEWTs – and I'm sure you would, too. It's – it's only common sense."

Harry said nothing. He just stared into the fire while his coffee went cold in its forgotten cup. _Common sense_. Well, that was certainly part of the problem: he wasn't sure he had any kind of sense at all. Hadn't had lately, anyway. How sensible was it to think about another human being every minute of the day? How sensible was it to think constantly about the look in someone's eyes?

"Won't you tell me what's going on?" Lupin's voice was low and almost pleading. "I know you're under tremendous pressure, Harry. But you have been ever since you were a child, and you've always held up fine."

"I didn't quite understand it then," said Harry thickly, suddenly overwhelmed by an intense sadness. "I knew that Voldemort wanted to kill me. I knew I had lost my parents because of him. I knew he was evil. I _knew_, but I didn't really _understand_ it."

It had been a good day. Ron, Hermione, Ginny and Harry had been met at King's Cross by Tonks and Lupin, and taken back to Grimmauld Place. They had unpacked and then helped Mrs Weasley decorate the Christmas tree. There had been quite a large company at dinner, and despite the darkness and fear that was spreading so quickly in the wizarding world, this had been an evening when all worries were discarded. There had been a lot of laughter as Lupin had told them some of the Marauders' wilder adventures, and there had been tall tales, and some real ones, from the past term at Hogwarts. But it had all been lightweight talk. When Lupin had tried to ask Harry in a low voice, underneath the noise, how he was, Harry hadn't mentioned or in fact even thought of either Malfoy or Insomnia. He had just laughed.

But now Lupin wanted to have a _real_ talk.

Funny how empathy could get to you. Harry had never wanted to cry when he talked to Hermione or Ron, or when McGonagall tried to pry him open to find out why his studies were going downhill. But now, simply because he felt that Lupin cared, and that he would _understand_, understand his fear and his anger and the way darkness was creeping into his thoughts and dreams – now everything was suddenly too much to bear. He desperately wanted to cry.

Perhaps he also felt that now that Sirius was gone, Lupin was the only one who really had the right to know what was going on. Or perhaps it was just that nobody else was genuinely interested. McGonagall was only interested for the exam results. Mrs Weasley was very kind, but she had enough worries with her own children. Ron and Hermione were interested, of course, good and true friends as they were. But they had a very clear picture of him in their minds, a picture they wanted to keep and which stood in the way of any real exchange. They wanted him to stay a hero. They didn't want to know about his insecurities.

He hated crying in front of people. He hated crying, full stop. He stared into the fire, as if the heat would prevent the tears flowing. 

Lupin had looked up from the fire and was eyeing him steadily, the flames reflected in his eyes.

"You don't have to tell me now, Harry," he said. "I know how hard it can be to talk sometimes. I know how hard it can be to trust people. But I want you to remember that if you do want to talk, I'm here to listen."

Harry stood up abruptly, his coffee cup falling from the arm of the chair and a stain spreading on the worn Oriental carpet like a brown rose that didn't fit the pattern. 

"I don't understand why everyone thinks I need to _talk_!" he said, voice threatening to crack. "There's nothing to talk about. There really isn't."

He knew he was going to cry, and he couldn't stand being looked at. He turned his face away and managed to say, "I'm going to bed." 

Lupin gave no reply, and Harry didn't wait for one. He ran out of the room and up the stairs, two blurred steps at a time. He closed the door to his room behind him and took a deep breath – he hated crying; he really did. It was like opening a trap door and seeing nothing but the black depth underneath, knowing you had to go down there. But it was open now and there was nothing he could do. He lay on the bed, crying into his pillow to muffle the sounds. Hedwig moved anxiously in her cage where she had settled for the night.

When the sobs subsided, Harry eventually fell asleep, on top of the bedspread and fully dressed, with his face still itching from tears. 

* * *

Harry opened his eyes to cold grey light on Christmas morning. For a moment he didn't know where he was, but then he looked out the window, saw an oak tree stretching a thousand gnarled fingers against a strip of grey sky between brick buildings, and remembered. 

He checked the time. Eight thirty.

__

Oh God. Why did I act like that with Lupin yesterday? Like a spoilt child. He pulled the bedclothes up over his head and groaned. _What if he gets tired of trying to make a stupid ungrateful kid think straight? What if he feels I'm not worth his time? _

He pulled the bedcovers down again and let out an impatient sigh, annoyed with himself. 

__

Stop it, Harry. Just stop. 

I trust Lupin. Of course he won't give up on me. I just... I just need to apologise. And I'm no bloody good at apologising.

Hedwig was nipping impatiently at the bars of her cage, and Harry got out of bed and let her out. He opened the window and saw that it must have snowed all night; the branches of the oak tree and all the roofs were covered with snow. Hedwig was almost invisible against the whiteness as she flew off. Harry closed the window and leant his forehead against the cold glass.

His feet were as heavy as his heart as he went downstairs.

Fred and George were teasing Ron mercilessly about something in the living room, and Hermione's voice, the voice of reason, could be heard trying to intervene. Harry didn't want to face them. He went to the kitchen. 

Molly Weasley was slicing smoked salmon and chattering vigorously to Lupin, who stood by the counter next to a row of champagne bottles, obviously about to open one. He turned around as Harry hovered in the doorway, and smiled as if yesterday had never happened.

"Merry Christmas, Harry," he said.

Mrs Weasley held out her arms to hug Harry, and then remembered she was holding a knife in one hand and the other was greasy from the salmon.

"Oh, dear." She waved her hands about helplessly, knife and all, and smiled. "Merry Christmas, Harry dear."

A pale sun was trying to break through the clouds. It matched Harry's mood perfectly, and he smiled back at them both.

"Merry Christmas."

He tentatively went up to Lupin, stood unsurely by the counter for a minute, running a finger down the misty side of a chilled bottle.

"I'm sorry about last night," mumbled Harry.

Lupin glanced at him.

"Don't worry about it," he said, and his voice was warm. "You were exhausted."

"Yeah. Sorry, anyway."

Their eyes met, and they smiled at each other again. Lupin held up the bottle in his hand.

"Ever had champagne for breakfast?"

Harry shook his head.

"About time then."

And as the cork popped, Harry laughed and Mrs Weasley cried "oh!", even the gloomy House of Black experienced something of a festive thrill. 

* * *

It had been a great Christmas Day after all, Harry concluded as he went to bed that night, smiling to himself in the dark as he lay back against the pillows. To someone else it might not seem like much, not to someone who was used to more spectacular Christmases. Someone like Malfoy. But for Harry it was wonderful to spend Christmas with family – an extended family, an odd assortment of people, but still undeniably family to him, much more than the Dursleys could ever be. Everything had been special today.

Harry closed his eyes and replayed the day like a film inside his head:

Bill and Charlie had arrived in the morning. Their presence had underlined Percy's absence, but after some tears from Mrs Weasley, they had all made a conscious effort to return to the cheery atmosphere. They had had a long, chatty, luxurious breakfast in the big sitting room where a fire roared in the fireplace, opening presents and laughing and getting a little dizzy from the champagne. Tiny tree-fairies had giggled and waved sparklers in the enormous Christmas tree. 

The opening of Christmas gifts had been unexpectedly uneventful. Fred and George had only tried out one new item from their joke shop, one which had caused Ron and Hermione to fly towards each other like pieces of iron to a very strong magnet, and their mouths had been clamped together so tightly that they had finally had to be separated by a Divisive spell from Mrs Weasley. Both Ron and Hermione had blushed furiously, and Ron was later heard muttering that the twins ought to be cut up and fed to the thestrals. Tonks had only overturned a small bookshelf, broken a champagne glass and changed hair colour three times. 

But Harry's joy was mixed with sadness. The house inevitably made him think about Sirius, as if the place was still crying out for his presence. 

After Sirius' death, a last will and testament had been found in his vault at Gringott's, and Dumbledore and Kingsley Shacklebolt turned out to have been given a copy each for safekeeping.

Sirius had left the House of Black to Remus Lupin. 

The Black relatives had been furious, of course, but they had soon found they could do nothing to contest the Will, as everything was in perfect order – it existed in three copies, it had been signed in red ink by two witnesses, and it had been sealed with red wax and stamped with the Black family crest.

Only the house itself had been left in Lupin's possession. Paintings, furniture, carpets, chandeliers, ornaments, jewellery – most of it had now been removed. The drapes and tapestries and portraits that had so stubbornly refused to let themselves be either moved or removed by the Order when they cleaned up the house, now meekly let themselves be carried off by various members of the Black family (with the notable exception of Phineas Nigellus, who simply pretended to be asleep, emitted loud fake snores and couldn't be moved even a fraction of an inch). The screaming, foul-mouthed portrait of Mrs Black thankfully allowed itself to be removed, but only after she had pronounced a horrible curse over Lupin. 

Lupin only raised an eyebrow and said to Harry:

"The old girl doesn't seem to realise she's a portrait, or she would know that curses and spells uttered by portraits have no effect."

After that, the house was left rather empty and rather quiet.

But although it was quite bare, there was still enough unclaimed furniture left for parts of the house to be lived in reasonably comfortably, at least by people who only demanded basics and weren't finicky about matching chairs or with the style or condition of the furniture. The members of the Order generally weren't. They all had far worse problems to deal with to be bothered by dull-surfaced tables, rickety chairs or beds with scuffed headboards. 

Harry turned on his back and looked up at the dark ceiling. 

__

Sirius, I wish you could have been here today.

He had to be careful now. He had lost his parents, he had lost Sirius – he couldn't allow himself to get too close to Lupin. Something bad was bound to happen if he did. Perhaps someone, Voldemort, anyone, had placed a curse on him as a child? A curse that meant he couldn't be close to anyone, or they would die? He wasn't willing to take the risk with Lupin. He couldn't allow himself to be involved with anyone that closely ever again. He couldn't allow himself to love people. But Ron, Hermione...? He couldn't unlove them.

He really had loved Sirius.

Pictures came to him in the dark; he began to walk through his memories like in a gallery, looking at the pictures on the walls. Quickly, with his eyes shut, he passed the last picture he had of Sirius, the one where he watched his godfather fall, fall, fall as if in slow motion, the look on the dark face an odd combination of defiant smile and stunned pain... slowly sinking backwards, his body gracefully curved...

__

No! Not that one. Never again.

Harry found that the pictures he enjoyed most were the ones where he was doing common, everyday things with Sirius, just as if they were a family, just as if Harry was an ordinary young wizard and Sirius an ordinary parent.

There was the picture of the two of them having a game of chess – the only one they had ever had. Years of playing against Ron had made Harry a reasonable player, but he still wasn't extraordinary in any way. He had lost to Sirius and stoically endured his teasing, while Sirius had unsuccessfully tried to hide a genuinely triumphant grin. Harry had been secretly immensely pleased to see that even after twelve years in Azkaban, Sirius could still find pleasure in trivial things like winning a game of chess.

And there was the picture of the one time they had been flying together, on a very secret visit to the Burrow. Sirius had found an abandoned broomstick in a cupboard and been overcome by a desire to fly. After dinner, when they'd had quite a lot of some very good wine that Sirius had brought from the cellars at 12 Grimmauld Place, he and Harry he had sneaked out to fly in the dark, when there was less risk of being seen. This had earned Sirius no further points in Mrs Weasley's book, and there had been precious few already.

It had been a lovely little adventure for as long as it lasted (which was until Mrs Weasley had come out and threatened to turn Sirius in to Cornelius Fudge if they didn't get back inside immediately).

It had been a clear, cold winter evening with a sprinkle of snow and a fantastic show of stars, and Harry had been swept away by the intense, delirious joy he always felt when he flew. His mood had soared even more when Sirius proved to be an excellent flyer. He told Harry he had been a Beater on the Gryffindor Quidditch team.

"And you know what they say. Once you've learnt to fly, you never forget how."

Harry had laughed. "Muggles say that about riding bikes."

Sirius had found this highly amusing.

They had been breaking the law as well as exposing Sirius to danger – flying while intoxicated was strictly prohibited. Neither of them had tried to deny that the danger added to their exhilaration. They hadn't spoken much, but Harry had sensed Sirius' excitement. It was one he understood so well, every fibre of it – it was a mixture of defiance, love of flying and the pure physical enjoyment of being out of doors, with cold air whipping your face. Freedom, if only for a moment. Harry had never felt so close to Sirius.

Getting to know someone was like doing a jigsaw puzzle, Harry thought as he turned around in bed. He had to smile a little as he wondered whether there were wizard jigsaw puzzles, and whether they moved, like wizard photos – that would certainly make things difficult. And they were difficult enough as they were. You picked up bits and pieces here and there and tried to fit them together until you had the entire picture of someone. Sometimes you thought you could see the picture before all the pieces were in place, but the last pieces could prove you so wrong.

Or, you were denied the opportunity to find the last pieces.

Harry beat a fist into the pillow.

__

Damn you, Sirius! Why did you have to die?

* * *

Draco threw his sweaty running clothes in a heap on the floor for the house elves to collect, and ducked into the shower. He stood there for a long time with closed eyes, hot water drumming on his head and soft, fragrant rivulets of shampoo streaming down his body. There was no hurry. No one was waiting for their turn to have a shower, and he had nothing to do anyway.

He went back to his room, dropped his towel and stood naked in front of the mirror. He turned and twisted and tried to inspect the flame mark on his tailbone. It was small and looked like a tattoo; three dark red flames in a kind of whirl around a central point where Lord Voldemort's fingertip had touched his skin. It didn't hurt any more. He didn't feel it at all. And he still didn't know what it was or why he had it.

He got dressed and sat on his bed for a while, elbows on his knees, looking down on the floor and wondering why everything felt so empty.

It was New Year's Eve. Bloody miserable being stuck at school when he should have been roaming the frosty park around Malfoy Manor, all anticipation for tonight's big dinner and party.

He spent the afternoon playing chess with a sixth-year boy in the Common Room, his thoughts all over the place, so much so that he only won because of a mistake on the other player's part. The sixth-year was too pleased at being almost on a level with Draco Malfoy to mind losing; there was a grin across his face.

"Beat you next time, Malfoy."

"You wish."

Dinner in the Great Hall was a strangely lacklustre affair, despite the glittery, sparkly decorations and the house elves' apparent effort to outdo each others' cooking. There were only a handful of students spending Christmas and New Year at Hogwarts, and the younger ones were so intimidated by being seated at the same table as the Headmaster and staff that they hardly said a word. Draco didn't do much to facilitate conversation, either. He only spoke when asked a direct question; he didn't volunteer anything. He could see Dumbledore trying to catch his eye but avoided the old wizard's gaze.

Draco excused himself as soon as he politely could, and went outside for a stroll. It was a few degrees below zero, with cold bright stars sprinkled across a velvet black sky. He walked briskly and tried not to think.

Why was he so restless? Walking wasn't what he wanted to do. It made him think too much about things that didn't bear thinking about. But he didn't want to return to the New Year celebrations, either. 

He went back to his room and spent an hour leafing through various books to try to find information, any kind of information, that could give him a hint about the meaning of Lord Voldemort's flame mark. But he found nothing, and for the first time he missed being able to send an owl to his father.

There had been no communication from his parents. Not even from his mother; not even at Christmas.

He went to the Common Room and found a few people there, among them Martin, the sixth-year he had played chess with. Martin proudly held up a bottle of Firewhiskey and invited Draco to share it with the group.

At midnight, when they joined the others outside to watch fireworks, Draco's blurred brain wondered suddenly what Potter was doing. _Spending time with the Weasels, most likely. Poor judgement, Potter. Poor in every sense. No Christmas presents to be had there. _

The fireworks wound their way towards the grand finale. Little red suns whistled and whirled and exploded all over the dark sky, their reflections quivering in the lake. A fountain of white sparks shot up, burst into blue and green stars and slowly rained down like petals, to be extinguished with a soft hiss in the dark water. Draco watched it all, unable to stop thinking about Potter. Didn't even really want to stop thinking about him. 

__

Well, if you refuse to leave my head, I might as well try to be civil. Happy New Year then, Potter. Not that you deserve it. But Happy New Year anyway.

**__**

FEBRUARY, 1998

They weren't sure how it had started. The Slytherin and Gryffindor house teams had had Quidditch practice virtually side by side, one in the field behind the Quidditch pitch and one on the actual pitch. Nothing strange about that. Parallel practice like this wasn't uncommon.

But after practice, both teams' Seekers had booked an additional half hour for individual practice. The pitch had been double booked, and both Seekers flatly refused to let the other one have it. 

The instant they met on the pitch and found out about the double booking, they started to argue violently. Instead of backing off and being shy as they had for so long, they started shouting at each other. They flung their brooms aside, and shortly after that there was the first punch. And it felt so good to have fist connect with jaw. 

They really went for each other. They tried to do as much damage as they possibly could, and it took three people to separate them. Harry even thought that Snape and Madam Hooch might not have succeeded if Hagrid hadn't happened to pass by the pitch that very moment and had lifted the boys up by the collar like puppies.

But, they weren't sure how it had started. And now they were standing here, in Dumbledore's office, having to try to explain themselves.

They hadn't looked at each other after the fight was broken up. They hadn't dared, even after their anger had died down.

"_Mr_ Potter! _Mr_ Malfoy!" Dumbledore rose ominously from his chair and leant forward, palms flat against the shiny surface of the desk. "Needless to say, I am appalled at your immature and irresponsible behaviour. I doubt that anything you say can excuse or explain your severe lack of judgement. Seventh-year students should set a good example to the younger ones." He paused to let his words sink in, staring intently at each of the two boys in turn. "However, I am willing to hear you out."

There was an oppressive silence as the boys stood side by side, staring stiffly ahead of them, avoiding Dumbledore's piercing eyes. Avoiding looking at each other. 

Harry was uncomfortably aware of the proximity of Malfoy's body, the faint smell of him that was neither pleasant nor unpleasant, just his personal smell, underlined now by his sweat-drenched Quidditch gear. He wanted to glance at the fair hair and face next to him, just to see, well, he wasn't sure what it was he wanted to see. Perhaps he just wanted to drink in that hot glow of the skin that follows physical exertion. Or rejoice in the damage he had done to that face. But he forced his gaze to stay directed at the wall above Dumbledore's right shoulder.

He wasn't exactly undamaged himself. Various parts of him were aching and burning from repeated contact with Malfoy's fists and elbows and knees. His nosebleed hadn't quite stopped; he could still feel a small warm trickle of blood down his upper lip. The wad of paper tissue that Madam Hooch had stuffed into his nostril was soaked through. He wiped his lip, grimacing both at the pain and at the streak of blood and grime across the back of his hand. He moved his jaw experimentally. By this evening he would have a fantastic bruise blooming along his jawbone.

"Well?" Dumbledore urged them. "Surely you must have _something_ to say? Some explanation to offer? Or will I have to believe that two of the school's brightest students have acted on impulse and impulse alone, incapable of rational thought?"

Draco had to restrain himself from shuffling his feet and instantly hated himself for his childish reaction. But Dumbledore's assessment was uncomfortably close to home. Incapable of rational thought – that would certainly be a fair description of Draco's recent mental state. He hated the way purely physical realities seemed to have taken over his intellect. Blood had dried in the scratches on Draco's cheek and they were straining and itching. He could feel a vicious bruise developing on his right thigh and one under his left eye, and he had bitten his tongue. Pain throbbed with each beat of his pulse.

"I cannot imagine a satisfactory reason or excuse for violence of this kind between students," Dumbledore was saying. "I would be very interested to hear what brought this about. Very interested indeed."

His voice was gentler now, and Harry relaxed inwardly. This was a return of the old Dumbledore, the Dumbledore who understood and had answers. It was a genuine offer of help. As if anyone could help. Anyone or anything. This had gone too far, it was too frightening. Attraction and repulsion; excitement and embarrassment and shame. And now all of it had exploded into violence. 

He shouldn't think of it now, in the Headmaster's office. But Malfoy's presence, even in this situation, made him hot, uncomfortable and scared, and ashamed of his own reaction. The uncontrolled mixture of emotions and physical reactions had increased Insomnia's power. He had never been this exhausted in his life, and exhaustion made him light-headed. He wasn't inclined towards violence by nature. If he had been able to sleep properly, this would never have happened.

Draco shifted a little. He felt Potter's body heat radiate from him, from his steaming clothes. They were standing so close they almost touched, very nearly but not quite. He wanted to turn his head to see the look in Potter's eyes, remembering how they had blazed a mere ten minutes ago, how they had flashed anger and hatred and hurt into his own. He remembered the fists and thuds and punches and the tearing and kicking and biting and groaning, remembered the satisfaction of hooking his arm tightly around Harry's neck to wrestle him to the ground, remembered the taut wiry body scrambling and twisting and writhing to get out of his grip.

Harry heard Malfoy swallow twice and wondered if he was going to cry. He had a sudden urge to laugh at the image of Malfoy crying in Dumbledore's office, with Harry Potter present. Dumbledore watched them both sternly, but both boys were still silent. Behind the Headmaster, Fawkes stirred and let out a short, piercing shriek that made them all jump. And when Dumbledore turned to look at the phoenix, Malfoy turned to look at Harry. Harry saw the movement out of the corner of his eye and turned his face towards Malfoy before he had time to think.

Their eyes met, and Harry's breathing failed its rhythm at the intensity of it; the intensity of looking into Malfoy's eyes so directly and so closely. Then Malfoy gave a little smile. It was a minute smile that only sat at the corner of his mouth, but it was there, and it was an invitation. Harry felt a deep, hot blush wash up over his face like a wave.

When Dumbledore's gaze returned from the phoenix to the boys, they were looking straight ahead again, standing perfectly still. Harry tried to swallow the pounding of his heart that threatened to choke him. And he wondered whether Dumbledore was puzzled by the fact that the flush on his face from Quidditch practice and the ensuing fight still had not died down, even fifteen minutes after the fight was broken up.

* * *

When Dumbledore dismissed them, Malfoy went out quickly before Harry, his head bent down. 

Harry realised he only had a very hazy idea of what had been said after he had met Malfoy's eyes. They had both received detention, he was clear on that. But everything else was a blur of burning face and thudding pulse.

On the spiral staircase, Malfoy looked up at him again, but the intensity was gone; the grey eyes only had a vaguely questioning look. The boys stepped off the staircase and out into the corridor, stopped again, looking at each other closely, inspecting each other's faces for damage.

Harry wanted to laugh. For a moment, he almost liked Malfoy.

"You're getting a black eye," he said amiably.

Malfoy made a face. 

"Really? Well, thanks for pointing that out."

Harry looked at the angry red, darkening skin below Malfoy's left eye for a long time, fighting an urge to reach out and gently touch it.

"Malfoy... " he said. His voice wavered slightly and he had to clear his throat. "Malfoy, I'm sorry I did that." He just had to do it. He stretched out a hand and touched the bruise with a fingertip, feather-light. Malfoy winced, and Harry wasn't sure whether it was from pain or something else. "Do you want me to... heal it?"

"Didn't you hear Dumbledore?"

Harry hastily withdrew his hand.

"What?"

"No magical healing, not even basic stuff. We're to go around with our cuts and bruises until they heal by themselves."

"Oh." He looked at the scratches on Malfoy's cheek. His own jaw and nose throbbed painfully, but the nosebleed seemed to have finally stopped. "Actually I... er... missed some of what he said."

Malfoy laughed, but broke off with a grimace of pain.

"Unfocussed, Potter?"

The pretty, laughing, bruised face and the arrogant tone of voice touched something so deep within Harry that he couldn't even acknowledge it, and it made him begin to get angry again. And he was somehow absurdly pleased at being able to get angry with Malfoy, angry and not just... that other weird feeling, whatever it was. Anger was clean. Anger was something he could handle.

"What the hell was that grin about?"

"What grin?"

Amazing how teasingly innocent Malfoy could look when he tried, even with a black eye, scratched face and streaks of mud in his hair.

"Back there. In Dumbledore's office."

Malfoy tried to laugh again, but ended up with a hand over his cheek as if he had toothache.

"I guess you just amuse me, Potter," he said irritably. 

Before Harry had come up with a good reply, Malfoy started to walk along the corridor, but turned around after a few steps.

"See you tonight then, Potter. I'm curious to see what colour that bruise on your jaw will have by then." 

When he had disappeared around the corner, his grin somehow lingering like that of the Cheshire cat, Harry began to shake with silent laughter. He wasn't sure why, but he laughed so hard his jaw hurt (it would turn purple by that evening) and his eyes filled with tears._ Fuck you, Malfoy._ He couldn't help admiring that arrogance. He wished he had more of it himself. 

He wiped a hand across his face and involuntarily echoed Malfoy's grimace of pain. He was tired from Quidditch practice and from the fistfight, but he felt he really needed to go for a run to get the irritated, pulsing tension out of his system. Only it would hurt like hell. _Fuck you, Malfoy. Fuck you from here to eternity._

* * *

"Headmaster," Snape said as he hurriedly entered Dumbledore's office and stopped in front of the desk.

"Thank you for getting here so quickly, Severus." Dumbledore made a gesture. "Have a seat."

As Snape sat down in one of the old, well-worn red armchairs, Dumbledore continued: "I have just given Messrs. Potter and Malfoy a well-deserved talking-to about their fight. A talking-to is indeed a proper term, as it genuinely and literally was just that." He paused. "The two gentlemen flatly refused to answer me."

Snape's jaw clenched and he made a disapproving noise, but there was a hint of a smile in Dumbledore's eyes. It glittered there for a second before it gave way to a graver expression.

"I'd like to ask you, Severus – have you observed any change in the boys lately? In their interaction? Are they behaving differently – generally, or with each other?"

Snape frowned. It was an unexpected question, and one he disliked being asked. Like several other teachers, he had observed and followed the interaction between Potter and Malfoy for years. There had always been tremendous tension and hostility between the boys, an enmity that seemed to have culminated in their fifth year. 

When Snape had first seen the clash of personalities in the boys' first year, he had personally deemed it inevitable and rather natural. Lucius Malfoy's son wouldn't take kindly to being second to anyone, especially someone who didn't have pure blood in his veins. The fact that this someone had an unequalled celebrity status in the wizarding world would not stop a Malfoy, on the contrary – particularly if this celebrity ranked highly with wizards like Albus Dumbledore. 

Besides, Snape welcomed anything that challenged Potter's intolerable arrogance. Potter was unbearably like his father – headstrong and confident without any real talent or brilliance. It always gave Snape a grim satisfaction to see Potter thrown off balance, and Malfoy had always incensed Potter more than anyone else. But in the past year or so, Snape had seen the relationship between the boys begin to take a worrying direction. There irritated tension between them was still there, but there was a strange silence, a watchfulness he did not know what to make of. The open enmity between them seemed to have ebbed out.

Snape had no wish to reply the question, but knew that Dumbledore would demand an answer.

"Only that they seem to refrain from the kind of exchange of venomous insults we are used to seeing them engage in," he said stiffly. "I believe there is still a certain antagonism, but it does not seem to be verbalised."

Dumbledore nodded non-committally, but his eyes were sparkling. "Indeed, indeed. And do you have a theory as to the reason for this... silence, Severus?"

His deceptively gentle eyes rested on Snape, who gritted his teeth and swore inwardly. 

"I only recently observed a certain difference in their behaviour towards each other, Headmaster," he said curtly. "I planned to continue my observation for some time to try to determine the nature of that difference."

"Hmm," was Dumbledore's unhelpful comment. 

He leant forward, placed his elbows on the desk and his fingertips together.

"I assume you would not in any way be opposed to seeing the... the _change_ you have observed... develop into friendship between the boys? Perhaps even close friendship?"

Snape's jaw muscles clenched. Dumbledore knew the answer to that question quite well. Snape had no wish to observe anything at all about Potter – he just wanted the boy out of his sight. And he had no wish to see any kind of friendship develop between Potter and anyone – certainly not between Potter and Draco Malfoy, whose brains and breeding were on a level quite out of Potter's reach. Snape pressed his lips together and refrained from replying.

Dumbledore leant back in his chair again, smiling benevolently. His amusement was obvious.

"Well, Severus, it's clear to us both that _something_ is going on, something quite as intense as the enmity and rivalry we have seen between the boys ever since their first year. They seem to be observing each other very closely. Perhaps, Severus, they are seeing each other as people for the first time, not only as stereotypes? And they seem to be acutely aware of each other's... physical presence. Fawkes noticed it, too. He even commented on it."

Snape frowned at this, and a heavy silence seemed to spread through the room. He began to understand where all this was pointing to, and it was a thought that made him very uncomfortable.

"I would like you to supervise their detention tonight, Severus, and I'm sure you understand why. Supervise – and observe."

Snape did understand. He had no wish to do what Dumbledore asked, but he knew he really had no choice. He made sure his reluctance was plain as he gave the faintest inclination of his head. Dumbledore, of course, was not deterred.

"Have you got any suitable tasks for them, Severus?"

"I believe so. How long a detention?"

"Three hours. And – " Dumbledore raised his hand at Snape's unspoken protest – "please keep in mind that this is very important. It could prove most valuable to us."

Snape did not reply. When Dumbledore said no more, he asked stiffly:

"Is there anything else?"

"No, that would be all for now. Thank you, Severus."

Snape rose from the armchair and left the Headmaster's office with a sweep of his black cloak.

Professor Dumbledore sat back in his chair, a wry look on his face and a small, unmelodious whistle on his lips.

* * *

"Potter, Malfoy," Snape said curtly in the way of greeting. 

"Professor Snape."

They stood uneasily side by side just inside the door, and for a moment, the professor was struck by the similarity between the boys, or perhaps by the contrast between their similarities and differences. Malfoy was slightly taller, perhaps by an inch, but they had the same lean, sinewy build – the build of a Seeker. One blond, the other dark; one head tousled and the other smooth. One had wary green eyes behind his glasses whereas the other's grey gaze could shift from evasive to downright challenging in a flash. Malfoy was poised but relaxed and his clothes were impeccable as always, whereas Potter's robes were askew as if he had thrown them on and fastened the clasp while running, and he was fidgeting. Both boys had a seriousness no seventeen-year-old ought to have. 

Snape could see why they would both repel and attract one another. He wondered whether the boys themselves were aware of the element of attraction, and how they would handle the realisation, when it came.

It would undoubtedly hit Malfoy long before it did Potter. Snape had never understood why that boy, of all boys, had been the one Who Lived. It was incomprehensible how someone so oblivious and blundering as Potter could have evaded and defeated an enemy like Voldemort for so long. It must all be an extremely fortunate combination of coincidence and luck, because it certainly wasn't skill or strategy on Potter's part. That confounded boy. He wasn't stupid, any more than his father had been, but he was not astute and not the type to premeditate and organise. He acted on impulse and bravery, and so far, his Gryffindor personality had generally served his purpose well. But sooner or later, he must run out of luck, and considering the current situation in the magical world, that would be sooner rather than later. 

Snape did indeed harbour an intense dislike for the boy, but did not wish for him to die. He simply wanted Potter out of his sight. As a former Death Eater, he knew all too well that the alternative to Potter's power was Voldemort's rule, and he had to overcome his dislike. The boy needed support if the sanity of the wizarding world was to be saved. Snape only hoped that he himself would not have to get too directly involved in that support.

"Three hours of detention for inexcusable behaviour," he said coldly. "I have never had much hope for any improvement of Potter's manners, but Malfoy – " He shook his head. "I am very disappointed in you. Surely you have been brought up to more dignified behaviour." He let his black eyes pierce each of the boys in turn. "Well. The joy of three hours in the store room awaits you."

When the boys hovered on the threshold, he shooed them off as if they were pigeons on a window ledge.

"What are you waiting for? A guide? A map? A compass? After nearly seven years in this school, I would have thought you could find your way from the Potions classroom to the store room. But perhaps this is too much to ask of your hormone-addled brains?"

Frowns and huffed expressions followed, but the boys turned around and walked ahead of Snape to the store room, where he placed himself by the desk in the far corner, and took his time about rigging the scales for measuring bryony, or womandrake.

* * *

Dumbledore's office was less well-lit than usual, and the Headmaster looked tired and worn. His face was greyish above the white beard, and his eyes dull.

"Well, Severus?" he asked.

Snape hesitated, but only a moment.

"Excuse me, Headmaster, but – are you quite well?"

"Oh. Oh, yes, yes. Thank you. It's nothing. I had a tiring afternoon, trying to gather some information from the reflection of the Sword."

"I see." Snape knew better than to ask about the result. "As for the boys..."

"Yes?"

"They hardly exchanged a glance all evening, and not a word except the minimum communication necessary to carry out their tasks. Which, I must admit, they did impeccably."

He did not add that there had been a tension between them so strong that he had half expected the glass jars on the table to start trembling and tinkling.

Dumbledore nodded slowly while his fingers played with a quill.

"Would you perhaps say that this silence between them might imply some kind of... attraction between them?"

__

Revolting, Snape thought._ Teenage boys. Potter!_

He didn't even want to think about the word attraction in connection with Potter.

"That is at least my own observation," Dumbledore said, sharper now. "And I trust you realise the potential of the development of such an attraction, Severus, if monitored and guided properly – and delicately...?"

He did realise it – he'd have to be stupid not to – but that did not mean he sanctioned it.

"Yes, Headmaster."

"But you are not comfortable with the attraction as such – or with the protagonists?"

Snape swore inwardly. Dumbledore always saw right through everyone.

"I know that Harry Potter is not your favourite student, Severus. But I also know that you chose sides long ago, and that you do realise the implications of this relationship."

Snape did not reply.

"We will have to consider this carefully – you especially, as you are the one who has objections. I do not believe it will be necessary for me to underline the importance of this matter staying strictly between the two of us...?"

Snape simply gave a rather stiff nod.

"Excellent," Dumbledore said. "Please meet me here tomorrow evening, after dinner, when we have both had time to think. We need to discuss strategies."

Snape inclined his head again, and Dumbledore sank back against the backrest and closed his eyes. He looked immensely old, and for a brief moment, through his displeasure and annoyance, Snape felt a sharp needle sting of fear.

* * *

It was a dark, sleepy morning in the dungeons, and the students fought to stay awake, despite being chilled to the bone. Harry rubbed his eyes and tried to stifle a yawn while chalk scratched the board. Snape's voice was slow, soporific and as cold as the air.

"It was believed that certain plants, herbs, roots and so on were appropriated to certain parts of the human body. The herbs were also divided into 'hot' and 'cold'. 'Cold' herbs were generally regarded as soothing and could be used for infusions or potions to heal wounds or cure fevers, whereas 'hot' herbs were used to provoke a reaction. Asphodel, for instance, was labelled 'hot in the second degree' and used as an emetic."

Harry glanced around. Parvati's head was about to sink down on her arms on the table. Dean was looking straight ahead with unseeing eyes, lost in some far-away world. He didn't notice that his quill was equally bored and had begun to draw endless tendrils of creepers around the edges of his parchment. Ron slipped a Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Bean into his mouth and made a face.

"Mallows were classified as cold herbs in the first degree. Today, the use of mallows has changed quite significantly. They are mainly used as an ingredient in potions such as..."

Harry grinned at Ron's bad choice of Bean, returned his gaze to the scribblings on the blackboard and sighed. Oh God, this was unbelievably boring. Definitely one of Snape's more uninspired lessons, probably because this was where his own subject overlapped with Herbology. Not the Professor's favourite area. 

"Go to page 371 in your books. Mid-page." Snape's black eyes swept over the students, and his voice was ominously silky as he said: "Will you be so kind as to read to us, Miss Brown? After lifting your head from the table, perhaps?"

Lavender started out of her half-slumber and, blushing deeply, miraculously managed to find the right place on the page:

" '_Herbs appropriated to certain parts of the body of man: Heat the heart._ Southernwood male and female, Angelica, Wood-roof, Bugloss, Carduus Benedictus, Borrage, Goat's Rue, Senna, Bazil, Rosemary, Elecampane.' "

Harry's mind threatened to drift off again, to the Christmas holidays, the smell of woodsmoke in the sitting room at Grimmauld Place, the feeling of security.... The lesson wound on.

Suddenly a soft, popping noise made Harry jump. Something small and light appeared on his lap, and its fragrance spiralled up into his nostrils. 

A sprig of rosemary. 

He frowned. What was it Lavender had just read aloud...? Rosemary... to heat the heart? 

He was suddenly aware of Malfoy's eyes on him, and his own heart kicked in his chest. He knew instantly that Malfoy had sent the sprig. His thoughts spun while his fingertips gently caressed the cool, needle-like leaves and his face went on fire. _Heat the heart._

He looked up cautiously. The grey eyes were there, like he had known they would be, waiting to meet his own. When Malfoy looked grave, like now, they were so beautiful, so strange; slowly shifting and changing, like drifting clouds. Harry gazed into them and didn't understand their expression – it looked like something in between puzzlement and pain. 

He looked down again, shaken, and couldn't help thinking _at last. At last he's decided to **do** something. _His hand closed around the sprig of rosemary and his pulse thudded almost loud enough to shut out Lavender's voice. From far off, he heard her read:

" '...an oil will distil down into the lower glass, to be preserved as precious for diverse uses, both inward and outward, as a sovereign balm...' "

Malfoy must have sent the herb purely with power of thought. Was he mad? Wandless magic, right here in Snape's classroom? Oh, it was so like Malfoy. He had never exactly been one to break rules, but rather tried to find a way around them by interpreting them in extreme ways. Like Muggle lawyers. Harry had to bite his lip to stop a smile, amused and impressed. 

And very nervous. Had he interpreted the message correctly? Was it really possible that Malfoy was saying... asking...? Or was it some kind of joke? But the expression in Malfoy's eyes didn't indicate a joke.

__

Heat the heart.

They had only had a few exercises with wandless magic in Lupin's DADA class. Harry had done well enough, but nowhere near as well as Malfoy had. If he concentrated, could he do this, too? He wanted to reply to the message. He wanted to say yes.

He threw a glance at the open pages of his book. "_Heat the heart._ Southernwood male and female, Angelica, Wood-roof..." _Angelica archangelica_. This very moment, Malfoy resembled the fair-haired, distant angels of a Renaissance painting Harry had seen in a Muggle art book, although not as indifferent as they had looked where they stood with their gaze lost in another world.

Harry closed his eyes for a moment and concentrated hard. He conjured up a very clear picture of the plant in his mind, pictured a leaf from it landing neatly on the folds of Malfoy's robes. Concentration. Deep now. The leaf... green and new... very clear in his mind... its green shape on the black fabric of the robes... the pale veins... the texture... And then a whispered spell, no louder than a breath.

It didn't work. 

Harry opened his eyes but didn't meet Malfoy's. _Damn._ Why didn't it work? He knew he could do this. He _felt_ it. But he also felt there was something missing... something he had overlooked, that he must take into consideration... something that had to be there when he concentrated on the visual part.

He closed his eyes again. The folds of Malfoy's black robes... the angelica leaf, bright green... its odd shape.... and then, quickly, like a flash, came the memory of Malfoy's smile in Dumbledore's office... Harry's own hot face and his thudding heart...

He opened his eyes again just in time to see Malfoy jump slightly and look down into his lap, staring down for a moment, a faint pink tinge coming into his cheeks. Then the grey eyes came back up and there was an odd look in them, a faint glimmer of something that resembled… relief?

__

Angelica is the herb of the Sun in Leo... it comforts the heart, blood and spirit...

Snape turned around with a dramatic swirl of his robes and threw a question Malfoy's way. The frail moment was gone. But the disturbing oddness of that look stayed with Harry for the rest of the day, the beauty of it dancing like fen fire in his mind. And when he had gone to bed, it still hung like a lantern above him in the dark, softly glowing.

* * *

There were no lanterns, real or imaginary, in Draco Malfoy's room, but he still couldn't sleep.

__

You want to talk to Potter, and you send him **herbs**? Oh brilliant, Draco. Pure genius.

But Potter had replied. He appeared to have understood the message, and he had replied to it the same way it had been sent. By wandless magic. By power of thought. Draco had to admit to being impressed. And not only impressed:

__

Potter **replied**.

Draco's heart turned a somersault in his chest every time he thought of it – and he had thought of it innumerous times that afternoon and evening. Potter had replied, and it must mean that he...? Yes, it must mean that – because the reply had required the unusual combination of thought and strong emotion.

Draco turned on his back and looked up into the ceiling, invisible in the dark. Looking at something that was obscured, but which you knew was there – that was what it was like to truly believe in something, wasn't it? What it was like to work towards an abstract goal?

He turned again, impatiently. His down-filled pillows seemed hard and lumpy tonight; they didn't yield to the weight of his head. His eiderdown made him too warm, even in the icy dungeons, even when he stuck his feet outside. He had tossed and turned for hours, thinking about Gryffindors and Slytherins. Thinking about Harry Potter.

Harry Potter, the true Gryffindor.

But what about the wandless magic? It was traditionally seen as part of the Dark Arts, and he seemed to perform it so effortlessly and on intuition. And what about his obvious disregard for the rules when the situation called for ignoring conventions?

He could have been a Slytherin.

__

Slytherin. _It's a word you can turn around in your mouth and taste. And you'd expect it to be bitter and slimy on your tongue. Perhaps it is, if you don't say it quickly enough. But the first impression is one of coolness and a kind of slippery elegance. It's a lovely word for an unhealthy concept. _

Draco was one of them. He was a Slytherin. He wasn't supposed to need friends, or want them. Was he allowed to need lovers? He was seventeen, and perhaps no seventeen-year-old should need lovers. They should be satisfied with dreams.

Slytherins couldn't be caught and held; they slipped away. They turned all ways at once and slid smoothly out of people's hands. 

But Draco _wanted_ to be held. He had never wanted to be – until now. It scared him. And he hated himself for being so weak.

But weak or not, he was still a Slytherin. He did have certain Slytherin characteristics, even if he didn't share all their general opinions. He could see some of the characteristics clearly: an analytical mind and a competitive and jealous disposition.

He sat up in bed and beat the pillows into shape before lying down again on his other side.

Jealousy, indeed. He had been jealous of Potter for more than six years. Pathetic, wasn't it? Ever since that time when Potter had refused to take Draco's proffered hand; that time when Potter had chosen Weasley over him. And it suddenly occurred to Draco that all this time, he hadn't only been jealous of Potter, but of Weasley, too.

Jealous of _Weasley_? Merlin, _that_ was pathetic. That was really and truly pathetic. 

All Slytherins had a theatrical streak in them, a craving for drama that perhaps was vanity, perhaps suggestive of something else. They would all do anything to avoid being ordinary.

But Potter...

Potter had never been ordinary, although he seemed to try so hard to be. And Draco knew with absolute certainty that he'd never succeed.

* * *

Hitting a wall of protection spells feels exactly like that: like running into a wall, or perhaps rather a thick glass pane. There is nothing to see, but unlike a wall or a sheet of glass, there's nothing to touch, either. He was satisfied. At least this showed that he had navigated correctly.

He had always liked darkness. It never scared him; he felt protected by it. And the air had a smooth silky quality that was more noticeable in the dark than in daylight; he could almost let it slide through his fingers.

He checked his time-piece. Ten more minutes, and the channel would open. Provided the boy had understood how to work the detection and decoding device.

He sat down on the mossy trunk of a fallen tree and waited. Night breathed around him, and stars twinkled between the bare branches of the trees. He used his ten minutes to rehearse.

The channel would open. It would take him into the Entrance Hall, and from there he had to go up the stairs... many stairs... and hope they wouldn't change and leave him lost. He didn't have much time – he had to complete his mission before the activation spell on the Portkey expired. In the Gryffindor Tower he had to find a portrait of a lady in a pink dress. She guarded the entrance to the students' quarters, and his own decoding device would break the password for him. Then, he'd find his way into the seventh-year boys' corridor – he needed to go up more stairs – and find Harry Potter. And when he had got the Potter boy, he would activate the Portkey and leave Hogwarts without a trace. 

No trace. But later, after the great victory, then everyone in the wizarding world would know his name. He would make his imprint on history.

When the ten minutes had gone by, he got up from the tree trunk and began to move experimentally along the invisible wall of protection spells. He found the opening surprisingly quickly. The boy had obviously done a good job, and it would be duly reported to Lord Voldemort.

He clutched the decoding device in his hand and smiled to himself as he began to move, swiftly and silently, along the channel.

* * *

In the Gryffindor Tower, Hermione Granger was turning her room upside down, so frustrated she was almost in tears. It was getting to be too much for her, she decided – everything was getting to be too much. She was Head Girl with all the duties the honour brought with it, and younger students kept coming to her for advice. Her own housemates came to her with their problems, too; everything from Arithmancy questions to confidences about their love lives. 

She always wanted to help, but lately she had begun to wonder if it was wise to try to help everyone. Because in doing so, she felt she was beginning to lose herself. She never had time to pursue her own interests. She hardly even had time to see Ron. And she was taking more subjects this year than there was room for on her schedule, just like she had in her third and sixth years. Her Time-Turner was frequently used – and the Time-Turner was the reason why she was now shaking all her clothes out, turning her bag upside down on the desk, and lying flat on her stomach on the floor to peer under the bed.

The Time-Turner was nowhere to be found.

__

Where **is** the bloody thing? I remember vowing after our third year that I'd never use one again. Never. Oh, what an idiot I am. I should have kept my word.

Hermione was crying pitifully now. Even if she hated the Time-Turner at the moment, it was a precious magical object. She was using it on condition she kept it an absolute secret. Harry and Ron knew about it, of course, but they were sworn to secrecy just as she was.

She usually wore the Time-Turner on a chain around her neck, but for the past few days she had carried it in her pocket to make it less visible. Several of the girls had seen the chain and asked to see the pendant, and been miffed when she refused to show it to them. She closed her eyes and tried to visualise the last time she had seen the Time-Turner. It must have been in the library. Yes, the library. She could see it now – lying on top of its coiled gold chain, on the shiny wood surface next to the book she was reading... Her eyes pinged open, and she felt panic rise like bile in her throat.

__

Oh, God. Oh my **God**. How could I have been so stupid? How could I have put it on the table like that?? I must have been mad.

She had to go to the library. At once.

It was already eleven o'clock, and it was time to do the rounds – she was even a few minutes late. She ran down to the fifth-years' dormitory to meet Professor McGonagall. McGonagall was grimly waiting for her on the stairs – being late was disapproved of, strongly. But Hermione's frenzy must have been written all over her, and her face probably still bore traces of tears, because McGonagall's expression changed and she said sharply:

"Is something wrong, Miss Granger?"

"Oh, Professor," said Hermione in a quavering voice, "I need to go to the library immediately. I left... I left something there by mistake. It's very important, and I need it urgently. It can't wait until morning."

She couldn't say it out loud. She just couldn't make herself admit to McGonagall that the thing she had left in the library was the Time-Turner. Her voice hitched on a fresh sob, and McGonagall only needed a second to make her decision. She gave Hermione a piercing look, and then promptly provided her with a note and the password to the library. It was plainly evident that McGonagall understood, without explanations, what the urgent errand was, but she chose not to comment. The girl's tears began to flow again, from pure relief.

"Thank you, professor. _Thank you_."

"Off with you now. Be quick."

Hermione didn't need to be told to hurry. She ran.


	5. Shadows

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Warning: Slash.

A/N:  
Thanks and love to my betas, **Plumeria**, **Darklites**, **Verdant** and **Milena Lupin**, and to **Aidan Lynch**, who helped me with parts of this chapter. I've made quite a few changes to the text after I had beta comments back, and any mistakes are mine only. Thanks also to **Frances Potter** for letting me send Draco to the Armando Dippet Memorial Library in his quest for the truth.

Thanks to all who reviewed previous chapters, and to all who have encouraged me to continue writing this story!

Author: Penguin

Title: OF SNOW AND DARK WATER

"The sympathetic connexion supposed to exist between a man and the weapon which has wounded him is probably founded on the notion that the blood on the weapon continues to feel with the blood in his body."  
_Sir James Frazer, The Golden Bough_

Chapter 4 - SHADOWS

Hermione ran along dimly lit corridors in the now still and quiet castle. She couldn't think clearly and she barely noticed her surroundings; her mind was a dark, whirling frenzy of half-articulated pleas and prayers, fragmented images and torn words. She didn't see Nearly Headless Nick in a second-floor corridor until it was too late to stop. She ran straight through him, which made her gasp at the sudden chill as if she had been doused with icy water. Nick shouted something after her, sounding deeply offended, but she only threw a "sorry" over her shoulder and ran on.

__

Please, please, please, she wailed silently as she ran, _please God, or whoever. Help me. Let the Time-Turner be where I left it. Oh, please._

By the time she reached the library, her brain had played a hundred horrible little scenes to her. A first-year had found the Time-Turner and got irretrievably lost in a time warp, and Hermione would be taken to Azkaban for her criminal carelessness... Filch had found the Time-Turner and would hand it in to McGonagall, who would promptly have Hermione expelled.... _Malfoy_ had found the Time-Turner, would find out who had lost it and use it to blackmail her – he would demand Harry turned over to the Death Eaters.... Or he would return it to Hermione in exchange for... for... for God only knew what services.

__

Really, Hermione.

She blushed in the dark and forced herself to concentrate on the password to the library.

The enormous, book-filled rooms were oppressive in the dark; the musty smell of dust, dry leather and old parchment more pervasive than usual. The high vaulted ceiling seemed to have lowered itself and now hovered over her in silent disapproval. Hermione wound her way as fast as she could among the rows of shelves by the light from her wand. By the time she reached the table where she had been sitting that afternoon, she was so frightened she had to close her eyes for a minute before she had the courage to direct them at the spot where the Time-Turner had been. She had known the table would be empty, but she still stared at the empty surface in dismay, her heart pounding.

__

Oh, no. What am I going to do?

She half-turned and caught a glitter out of the corner of her eye. A glitter from something on the floor, almost hidden under the nearest bookshelf. Hermione dropped to her knees, snatched up the Time-Turner on its chain and sat for a while with closed eyes, holding it to her breast with both hands.

__

Oh, God. Oh thank you. Thank you thank you thank you.

The relief was so immense it set her tears flowing again, but when she realised how melodramatic her prayer position on the floor was, she had to smile to herself. She could afford a smile now. 

And within another few minutes, Hermione's rational brain had recovered from its temporary lapse and had to work on a different problem.

When she locked the heavy doors behind her with the spell McGonagall had given her, and turned around to head back to the Gryffindor Tower, she sensed something that made her stop dead and listen. She wasn't sure whether she had heard a noise or if something else had caught her attention, but there was a strong feeling that something had changed, had shifted... a different atmosphere... a streak of cold air... a foreign smell. She just knew, instinctively, that something was very wrong. For a fraction of a second she thought about Harry, who had taught her that acting before thinking was sometimes imperative, that sometimes you had to trust your instincts to survive.

But if her instincts were awoken, so was her brain. When she ran to the library, she had been oblivious of everything except the Time-Turner. Now, she was all attention. She felt the hairs at the back of her neck stand up.

She looked carefully around, and she thought the Hogwarts corridors had never seemed so frightening. If someone wanted to hide here, there were only too many places – so many shadows and corners, so many odd little rooms and corridors, and the changing stairs that could make you end up somewhere you definitely hadn't planned on going... And the light from the few torches that were still burning at this hour really concealed more than it revealed – it distorted reality, it moved and flickered and made you see things that weren't there. 

But as Hermione heard no sounds and saw nothing out of the ordinary, she began to walk slowly towards the stairwell.

When she sneaked her head around the corner to look, her eye caught a movement at the foot of the stairs, and all her instincts screamed at her to move out of sight. She willed herself to stay where she was, immobile.

She saw a dark figure moving, swiftly but stealthily, towards the foot of the stairs, carefully staying in the shadows close to the wall, involuntarily underlining the fact that it didn't belong there. The figure wasn't wearing a Hogwarts cloak; the cloak looked more like the hooded capes the Dementors wore. Hermione pressed her back and her palms to the wall and tried not to breathe. The figure looked around, looked up through the stairwell where the occasional staircase shifted to connect to a different corridor, and seemed to wonder where to head next. It was obvious that this person, or whatever it was, was unfamiliar with the Hogwarts interior. 

Something told Hermione it would be very dangerous to try to take on this intruder single-handedly. She edged away from the stairwell hall, breathed a spell to mute the sound of her steps, and ran as fast as she could to Dumbledore's office.

* * *

When the Hogwarts students returned to school after Christmas, rumours had begun to spread. They were whispered and vague at first, but lately had gained strength – rumours saying that Albus Dumbledore's magical powers were fading, that he was getting weak, getting old, was even on the border of getting senile. Hermione hadn't paid any attention to the rumours and still didn't believe a word of them. There were students at the school who were believed to sympathise with the dark side, perhaps even to report to the Death Eaters, and if Dumbledore thought that spreading a false rumour about his own failing powers would serve his, or the Order's, purpose, Hermione didn't think he would be above doing so.

When she saw him in his office this evening, she believed even less in his weakness. She arrived at the gargoyle panting with haste and fear, and it seemed to sense her urgency, spinning around swiftly and almost spitting her out at the door. Hermione flung it open and ran up to the Headmaster's heavy desk, stumbling on the steps.

"Professor Dumbledore, there is an intruder," she panted, "I saw him in the stairwell... someone in a hood and cloak... moving as if he didn't want to be seen. He headed up the stairs to the first floor and he was looking upwards as if he was going to continue... in the direction of Gryffindor Tower."

Dumbledore was on his feet at once, and Hermione took a step back at the sudden change in him. He seemed taller, and there were shadows across his face and a fire in his eyes that contradicted anything she might have heard about weakness, senility and lost power. 

"_Accio_ staff." 

A tall, carved staff with a silver handle in shape of a phoenix head flew to his hand from a corner. Dumbledore went up to something Hermione had always thought was a mahogany cabinet but now turned out to be doors covering an enormous, detailed map of the Hogwarts castle and grounds. Dumbledore touched the map with the handle of his staff, and suddenly there were tiny, luminous dots grouped in rooms or moving along corridors and paths. Hermione drew a sharp breath.

"Yes, yes," Dumbledore said in reply to her unasked question, his back turned to her, "I assume this is where the idea for the Marauder's map originated. And... yes – here we have the intruder. You are right, my dear; he does seem to be heading for the Gryffindor Tower."

Dumbledore turned and pointed the staff towards his desk.

"_Aperium._" 

A drawer unlocked and flew open, and Dumbledore fished out a small object of radiant blue. Looking at his face this very moment, Hermione could well understand why this was a wizard Voldemort would fear.

"There are times, Hermione, when circumstances require setting aside rules and regulations," he said, letting the blue object roll quickly from his palm into his sleeve. "Or even overriding the security system. This is one of them."

And with a loud crack, the Headmaster of Hogwarts Disapparated from his office.

* * *

Harry and Ron were on their way from their rooms to breakfast. They treated the stairs with the careless familiarity bred from nearly seven years of daily use, half running and half sliding down the worn steps. They were talking about a brilliant Quidditch move that the Arklow Arrows' Seeker had performed, but when they reached the Gryffindor Common Room, the scene in front of them made their smiles fade. Hermione was standing by the fireplace, looking huddled and cold despite the roaring fire, her face pale and pinched as if she was going to cry.

Ron took a few quick steps up to the trembling girl and put an arm around her, made her sit down in one of the old, squashy armchairs and placed himself protectively on one armrest.

"What's wrong, Hermione? You have the rosy colour of Nearly Headless Nick this morning."

But Hermione didn't smile, and her eyes, dark and frightened, sought Harry's.

"Someone broke into the castle last night," she said. "Apparently he was a Death Eater, and his mission seems to have been to... to attack Harry."

Ron bit back a very nasty word, and Harry sat down heavily in the armchair next to Hermione's. He had been feeling so good this morning, better than he had for quite some time as he had actually managed to get a good, long night's sleep without visits from Insomnia. He had chatted to Ron and felt almost... normal. And then this.

He laughed mirthlessly.

"To quote Dobby," he said and imitated Dobby's grating voice: "_Oh, I'm used to death threats, sir. I get them five times a day._ It does seem to be the theme of my life, doesn't it? 'Someone is trying to kill you, Harry.' Sometimes I wish they'd just do it and get it over with."

Hermione winced.

"_Harry!_ Don't _ever_ joke about things like that! Not _ever_!"

She looked as if she was about to slap him. For a moment, he wanted to ask her whether she meant joking about the house-elves' situation or about his own, but thought better of it.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," he said, stretching out a hand and squeezing hers. It was cold and trembled in his. "He was caught, wasn't he? Do they know how he got in?"

"Not yet," Hermione said in a low voice, "but it seems... it seems he must have had help from inside the school."

Ron bristled.

"Malfoy. The stinking little ferret. Help from the inside! As if they need to guess where that help came from."

Harry's heart skipped a beat at the mere mention of the name, and he had to will himself not to rush to Malfoy's defence.

"Who stopped him?" he asked. "The intruder, I mean," he added hastily. "I doubt it was Filch."

Hermione told them her story, and while she talked, Harry felt a helpless tenderness well up inside him – that pale little face, the tense shoulders, the way her hands trembled in her lap...

"How many times is it you've saved my life now, Hermione?" he said gently. "I hope you're not keeping track. I must owe you a debt larger than Gringott's."

This finally made her smile, a small shaky smile, and she leant forward to hug him. Harry glanced at Ron, but Ron's mind was working along another line.

"A map like the Marauders' one!? And there actually _is_ a way to override the security system and Apparate inside Hogwarts?"

"Well, of course there is," Hermione said with a hint of impatience in her voice, "or they wouldn't be able to _teach_ Apparation here."

Both Harry and Ron smiled a little at the real Hermione returning.

"I just meant," continued Ron, "that if it's possible to remove the protective spells from the inside, perhaps someone has figured out how to do it from the outside? There are experts on magical security systems working for the Ministry, and I'm sure it must be big business outside the Ministry, too. All those pureblood wizards with huge estates they want to protect, for instance. They'll want to buy security systems." His face clouded over like the sky in April when he heard the implications of his own words. "It all comes back to the Malfoys. No matter how I try, it always comes back to the Malfoys."

Harry said nothing.

When they entered the Great Hall a few minutes later, they found it buzzing with excitement, fear and wild speculation. A barn owl swooped down and dropped today's Daily Prophet into Hermione's cornflakes. She picked it up, brushed it off and unfolded it, and they all stared at the picture of Hogwarts on the front page.

DEATH EATERS ATTACK HOGWARTS,

the headline screamed at them in heavy black lettering across the page.

"How could they have found out about this?" Hermione choked. "I thought Dumbledore and I were the only ones who knew!"

"Well, if you're sure you didn't make a detour to the owlery on your way back from Dumbledore's office, Hermione.... then it must be Dumbledore himself who sent a message to the Daily Prophet," said Ron as he helped himself to some toast.

"Why would he do that!?"

Ron buttered his toast generously and shrugged.

"To inform people? Now that the Ministry has finally accepted the fact that You-Know-Who has returned, and now that the Daily Prophet is actually reporting on Death Eater activity, it would be a good way of letting people know that nothing is safe... what the Death Eaters are capable of. That people should be careful because there are eyes and spies and traitors everywhere."

Harry said nothing. He just looked at his oldest friend and thought it would be a waste to let Ron go to Romania to study dragons instead of going to the Academy. A waste of a good mind. Ron didn't believe in himself enough. 

"Or..." Ron was saying with an odd expression in his eyes and one cheek bulging with toast, "...or whoever helped the Death Eater from inside Hogwarts ran to the owlery and sent a message to the Daily Prophet."

Both Harry and Hermione stared at him.

"Why would he... or she... have done that?" Harry said cautiously. "They failed. They didn't carry the attack through. Why would they like to plaster their failure all over the front page of the Daily Prophet?"

"To show people it can be done," Ron said. "To prove it's possible to break into a place as heavily protected as Hogwarts. Perhaps it wasn't a failure at all. Perhaps they achieved exactly what they wanted to achieve."

"But what about wanting to attack me?"

"Well, perhaps it was a... secondary goal. I mean... I don't mean it's unimportant or insignificant, Harry. You know I don't, so stop looking like that. I just meant that goal no. 1, the most important one, was breaking in – kind of like a test run. Goal no. 2, attacking you, kidnapping you, whatever, wasn't really expected to happen, not this time, but if it did, it would be a... an added bonus. Do you see what I mean?"

Harry nodded slowly. 

"It fits," Ron said. "It was a rather clumsy attempt, wasn't it, if you think about it? But if it was a test run... for something else, perhaps... What if he was _meant_ to be caught? I wonder if he knew. The intruder... the one they sent. I wonder if he knew he was just a pawn they sacrificed." 

Hermione hadn't said anything, but apparently her thoughts had wandered in the same direction as Harry's, to the Academy. She was looking thoughtfully at Ron, who now moved the lump of toast from his cheek and began to chew it vigorously.

"I know what _I_ know though, Ron," she said quietly.

"What?"

"You should study hard for your NEWTs and apply for the Advanced DADA programme at the Academy. "

Ron stopped chewing and snorted. "What – ? Oh, yeah. That'd be the day."

Hermione launched into a persuasion speech, but Harry didn't join in, although he did agree with her. He put a spoonful of cornflakes into his mouth unenthusiastically and wondered what would happen now, with the inevitable security reinforcements and the inevitable focus on himself.

* * *

"Do you believe I did it, Professor?" Draco asked calmly. "Do you think I let him in?"

He held his head high and his gaze steady. Dumbledore leant back in his chair, put his fingertips together and rested them thoughtfully against his chin. He looked at Draco for a long time, but Draco was used to this kind of treatment from his father and didn't falter. He just continued standing there, with his feet slightly apart, his hands behind his back and his eyes on Dumbledore's face, waiting. He could stand like that for a very long time, if needed.

"Well, Mr Malfoy – did you?"

Draco looked at the Headmaster with defiance.

"No, sir," he said firmly. "I did not."

Dumbledore sighed deeply and rose from his chair. Draco angrily bit his lip.

__

If he dismisses me now, without giving me an answer... If he's mysterious and vague again... I must do something. I can't just accept it.

But Dumbledore didn't dismiss him; he came round the desk and placed a hand on Draco's shoulder. Draco had to resist an urge to move away from the touch – it wasn't unpleasant, exactly, only unexpected, and it made his shoulder tingle with a warmth that he didn't know what to make of. It was as if he could feel Dumbledore's magical power, how strong it was. As if Dumbledore wanted to demonstrate it to him.

"I don't believe you did, Mr Malfoy. I don't believe you did. But I do believe you might benefit from a... more personal talk."

After a second of bewilderment, Draco felt his face go hot. A personal talk? What did he mean? 

__

Damn Dumbledore and his confusion tactics. I hope he isn't going to talk about Potter. I really, really hope he isn't going to talk about Potter.

"Please, sit down," said Dumbledore and nodded towards two red, high-backed armchairs. "Would you like some tea?"

"Yes, please," said Draco, now utterly confused, and obediently sat down.

"You haven't been home in a while, Mr Malfoy," said Dumbledore with his back to Draco as he opened a cupboard and got out cups and a teapot. "And I have noticed you haven't had much communication with your family."

__

Now that's an understatement, Draco thought.

He felt his entire body relax, and leant back in his chair. The thought of discussing his present situation, discuss Lucius, with Dumbledore certainly wasn't a pleasant one, but anything was better than having to talk to him about Potter.

Dumbledore placed cups and teapot on the table and touched the pot with his wand. Steam rose from the spout. He poured Draco a cup of fragrant tea, then sat down and poured himself one. The tea was immediately stirred by a silver spoon that came dancing out of nowhere, acting on its own. Dumbledore leant back, cup in hand, and beamed benevolently at Draco across the table. Draco had to stop himself squirming. He always felt naked and defenceless under that blue gaze.

"I know Professor Snape has talked to you, but I don't believe you disclosed very much to him," Dumbledore said. "I must repeat I do think you would benefit from discussing your current problems, whatever they are, with someone. It needn't be me. But if there is something you'd like to tell me...?"

The fine bone china cup rattled against its thin saucer as Draco's hands began to shake. He took a too-big mouthful of the hot tea and burnt his tongue and his throat. The pain made his eyes water.

__

Don't lose it, Draco. Self-control.

"And if you do not wish to discuss your family with me, I would still like to talk to you about the Academy," Dumbledore continued. "I understand you intend to apply?"

Draco set the cup down and heard himself say:

"My father has forbidden me to come home until I have 'entered the right path'."

He listened with dismay to the bitterness, hurt and contempt in his voice when he quoted his father's words.

__

I wonder if there's Veritaserum in the tea.

But he knew in his heart that Dumbledore wouldn't resort to that kind of method. The old wizard knew that that was no way to win an ally. His reign was not one of fear, unlike Lord Voldemort's, and he would want and need his allies to trust him. Trust him enough to tell him the truth without the influence of potions.

Dumbledore was still looking at Draco benevolently, but the smile had gone. 

"And your own idea of the right path does not correspond with your father's idea."

It was a statement, not a question. Draco nodded and looked down at his hands. There was a long silence.

"What is the right path then, in your opinion?" Dumbledore urged gently.

Draco looked up, incredulous. The old man had asked as if he really wanted to know, as if he was not asking to rebuke, teach or preach. It must be a trick. Surely it was a trick.

"I don't know," Draco said truthfully. "I don't know what the right one is. I just know that I... I don't want to..." His voice sank to a whisper, and he was trembling. He had never discussed this subject with anyone but his father, and had never thought he would. He had entertained the most forbidden thoughts, and now he had uttered them out loud: deviation from the plan, from his assumed role; doubt and insecurity. What would Dumbledore do? Would he punish Draco for his doubts? Would he go on interviewing him, _interrogating_ him, and then punish him for not wanting to join Dumbledore's side unconditionally? Draco cleared his throat, but his voice wouldn't obey him. "I just know I don't want to join the Dark Lord," he whispered hoarsely. "He is insane. He is, his theories are. I just can't make myself believe in what he is doing. What he wants to do."

He was shaking violently now. He had just laid himself open to Albus Dumbledore, the only wizard Lord Voldemort was said to fear, the wizard his father despised and hated more than anyone in this world. _Draco, are you stupid? You have just given Dumbledore power over your life. He can dismiss you, expel you, and then where will you go? Are you trying to pronounce a death sentence over yourself?_ There was nothing Draco hated more than being at someone's mercy. That was the curse of being young. You were always at someone's mercy and under someone's power; you always had to follow someone else's decisions and abide by someone else's rules. Draco clenched his teeth and his fists and didn't look up. He waited for the axe to fall. Or the sword. Or the curse.

"I have always regarded a critical eye and a questioning mind as a very healthy sign in a young person," Dumbledore said gently. "Much healthier, in my opinion, than a tendency to quiet acceptance. One of the great joys of working at a school is watching young people develop into critically-minded, thinking and reasoning individuals. You, of course, Draco, are no exception. What I _do_ find exceptional about you is your courage." He peered at Draco over his half-moon glasses and nodded, agreeing with his own words. "It does indeed take courage to stand up for your beliefs despite the consequences, the way you do and have done. Knowing your father, I know this is no easy thing. I dare say it is not something anyone would do lightly, not even someone who is not directly dependent on him the way you, as his son, are."

Draco listened without understanding a word. He was still shaking, and now his face was burning – he was being praised, but he didn't know what for. Courage? It didn't sound right. It didn't fit.

"I'm not brave in the least," he said in a low voice that was still hoarse and unsteady. "What else could I do? The Dark Lord is insane. They all are. I can't join them. I had no choice."

He looked up at Dumbledore, who began to smile, eyes twinkling. 

"That, Draco," he said, "is exactly what I mean. You think this is the only thing you could have done, that you had no choice, but many men would have chosen differently than you did, for caution or fear. There is almost always a choice, and you have made one here, too. One day you will see that, and you will also see how courageous your decision was."

Draco said nothing, simply because he couldn't think of a single thing to say. It sounded so wrong, what the old wizard said about courage. Draco had never been courageous; on the contrary – when he looked back at his younger self he only saw a cowardly, loudmouthed little brat. And he would hate to tell Dumbledore that any choice he had made had probably been based less on premeditation and noble intent than on fear and contempt.

"The Academy, now." Dumbledore leant forward. "What do you have in mind there?"

And Draco found himself telling the Headmaster quite easily, now that he had already said the worst, what he had mulled over for some time. And Dumbledore, surprisingly, seemed very pleased, even enthusiastic, at the prospect of having Draco Malfoy as an Advanced Defence Against the Dark Arts student at the Academy. They talked for a while about requirements and the expected curriculum. Draco's voice gradually returned to normal and his hands stopped shaking.

"Well, Draco," Dumbledore finally said and rose from his chair, "thank you for this enlightening talk. You will be very busy for the remainder of the school year – you will need to put in some work to get the required grades, but there is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed." He placed a hand on Draco's shoulder again, briefly. "I should add that I will be glad to listen any time you feel you need to ease your burden a little. And I want you to know that there will always be a place for you here, if you want it."

"Thank you, sir," mumbled Draco, unsure of what he had been offered.

He left the Headmaster's office in a state of confusion.

* * *

Draco couldn't sleep that night. He lay awake thinking about the unexpected turn his talk with Dumbledore had taken, about his future, about his possibilities. About Potter – or rather how he would like to talk to Potter. About the intruder at Hogwarts and the rumours about a collaborator inside of the school. Apparently Dumbledore believed Draco when he said he had not done it. It was a tremendous relief.

Someone had tried to attack Potter. It wasn't the first time that had happened, of course. But it was the first time the thought had made Draco genuinely uncomfortable, worried, even scared – the first time it had seemed _real_. Perhaps it was the first time he had realised what it would mean, what his own world would be like without Potter.

What _would_ it be like?

Surely there would be no great difference. These days, they never talked to each other anyway. They had become a silent, passive part of each other's lives, with a few exceptions like that stupid fistfight on the Quidditch pitch. So why did the idea of the world without Potter, a _future_ without Potter, suddenly seem like no future at all? It lost all its colour and became utterly bleak and meaningless. 

No, they never talked, and Draco couldn't figure out a way to begin talking. Not a natural, relaxed way that wouldn't be awkward. But at the Academy – surely things would be different there, especially if they took the same subject...?

Draco turned irritably in bed. This wasn't normal. It was unhealthy. Letting Potter invade his head was definitely unhealthy. And he had only recently begun to recognise Potter's role in his own choices, the way Potter influenced his subconscious. 

__

Potter is my greatest weakness. 

Weakness was dangerous. Dependency was dangerous. Trust, need and faith were dangerous. They could make you fall so heavily and from such heights. Other people weren't worth it. You had to trust yourself, only yourself. And perhaps you shouldn't even trust yourself too much.

Children trusted their parents. Draco had trusted his, too. He had trusted them to love him, or rather had taken their love for granted – and perhaps they really had loved him, for as long as he conformed to their wishes, plans and decisions. Now that he did not, now that he had proved to have a will and a mind of his own, his father had banned him from his home and his mother had silently acquiesced. 

Narcissa's passive acceptance of Draco's banishment had been far more painful to Draco than he would ever have thought, certainly far more painful than Lucius' actions. After all, Lucius' anger had been expected. Draco didn't often allow himself to think about his mother – when he did, he was overwhelmed by a bitterness and a pain so deep it took him days to fully recover and resurface.

It was a perfect illustration of just how dangerous it was to allow yourself to love and trust someone. Love made you weak.

All through Draco's childhood, his father had talked about weakness, about his theories and views on the subject. Weakness, or the absence of it, was crucial to him, to his philosophy and his life.

Lucius used to say: "Everyone has weaknesses, Draco. It's only human nature and nothing to be ashamed of. The real weakness is to let them show." And Draco had always believed this. He still did. Perhaps it was the only part of his father's creed that he still did believe in.

Draco remembered the first time he found that his father's opinions could be questioned.

It had started out like a mission for Truth, in Draco's sixth year. He had begun looking for books on one of Lucius' fundamental beliefs – one which Draco, at the time, embraced and supported, and had always more or less taken for a fact: The risk of degeneration of noble wizard families and the importance of keeping bloodlines pure; the importance of marrying within certain families only, to prevent dilution or contamination of the blood. Draco's only purpose when he went looking for literature on the subject was to find good arguments for it, arguments expressed and articulated better than he could, to have something brilliant and scholarly to throw in the faces of those pathetic Mudblood lovers at school. It had been very important to him then, after Lucius' brief sojourn in Azkaban. Draco had desperately wanted his father's power and position to be reinstated – he wanted so badly to prove Lucius right, to show them all what you could and could not do to a Malfoy. Only later, only recently, had he understood that he himself was the one who had needed convincing.

He had searched the library at Hogwarts for works on degeneration of noble families, and there were quite a few. Draco read some of them, and to his astonishment they didn't contain the kind of information he had expected, not the clear-cut truth he had wanted to find. Instead, he had stumbled on material that completely contradicted his father's opinion. The first thought that crossed Draco's mind was censorship – of course the biased Board and Faculty at Hogwarts had censored the choice of books in the school library. 

But during the spring break he spent some time at the Armando Dippet Memorial Library, which certainly wasn't censored but contained everything that had ever been published in the English-speaking magical world, and he found much the same information there. There were only two notable exceptions. One of them he remembered having seen a copy of in the bookcase in Lucius' study, and in some of his friends' homes, too. It gave a rather genuine, scholarly impression if you didn't read some of the statements too closely. The title was _Nature's Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy_, and it was obvious that both the Malfoys and many other families regarded themselves as part of this nobility. The second was a volume with the title _Blood and Power – A Study of Five Pureblood Families_, where the tone and wildly speculative conclusions made the author come across as half demented. In short, there was nothing to support or prove Lucius' beliefs, and Draco felt the earth move beneath his feet. He was both frightened and fascinated, and he just had to know more.

It became an obsession; a secret, guilty obsession. When he returned to Hogwarts after the spring break, he read all he could find on the subject – big, heavy volumes that he carried to a dark corner of the library to read. And the more he read, the more he was convinced that this was the truth. It did seem that the efforts to keep bloodlines pure created degeneration – and that degeneration really only was a less offensive word for inbreeding. Fresh blood would not contaminate the blood of the noble families – it was also proven that the power of Muggle-borns or halfbloods was no weaker or less effective than the powers of pureblood wizards and witches. What could differ was knowledge and tradition, not actual power or talent. (And Draco grudgingly had to admit to the truth of this, having watched Granger's indisputable skill and Longbottom's embarrassing near-Squibbishness for years.) Intermarriage would serve to strengthen wizardkind, not threaten its existence. 

Draco's world had been smashed to pieces, and he began to try to put it back together again. That was when he had stopped talking about Mudbloods. That was when he had nearly stopped talking altogether. He had had too much thinking to do. Too much re-evaluation.

And then, last summer, came the definite realisation that he couldn't go along with his father's and Lord Voldemort's wishes. The Dark Lord was demented and power-mad, and Draco wouldn't – couldn't – fight for his cause.

So what were his options now? Dumbledore had presented one to him today. "There will always be a place for you here, if you want it." And Draco knew that "here" had not referred to Hogwarts; it had meant "here with me, with us, on our side".

But Draco was far from sure he wanted it. He had no ideological or moral conviction to motivate him. Not wanting to join the Dark Lord didn't automatically prompt him to join the opposite side. He wondered whether, if he started studying the beliefs and ideals of Dumbledore's side, he would be as absolutely convinced about their truth as he had been by the counter-arguments in the pureblood discussion.

And this was the reason why he wanted to take Advanced Defence Against the Dark Arts at the Academy – at least the main reason. He wanted to know more about the dark side's opponents, about the thoughts and ideals and arguments and theories they built their opposition and resistance on. Also, of course, he knew that being a Malfoy, he had a great advantage, a great store of knowledge that Potter, for instance, did not have, could not have. He would be a star student.

Finally, there was no doubt that Potter himself was a reason for Draco's interest in the Academy. Potter's reaction at the information meeting when Dumbledore had introduced the Academy to the final year students had made the hairs at the back of Draco's neck and on his arms stand up, electrified. It had been that strong, that exciting, and the pure exhilarating intensity of it had made Draco feel that nothing could make him stay away from the Academy, nothing in the world.

* * *

Despite the unusually warm and sunny weather that spring, it was a time of uneasiness and metaphorical darkness.

When Magical Law Enforcement had finished their work at Hogwarts after the break-in, Dumbledore wasted no time setting about improving and reinforcing the school's system of wards and protection spells. He temporarily engaged the team of wizards and witches working on securing the Academy to find and close gaps in the Hogwarts system. There was curfew at 10 pm, corridors were patrolled, and students were only allowed to go to Hogsmeade in groups escorted by a teacher. 

The number of reports about mysterious disappearances and killings of both wizards and Muggles increased steadily. Antonius Greene, a high-ranking official at the Obliviator Headquarters at the Ministry of Magic, was found to be a Death Eater using Polyjuice. A few days later, the real Antonius Greene was found dead in a wood, by a Muggle walking his dog. There was a note pinned to his robes, sealed with a skull with a snake emerging from its mouth. The simple message read: "There will be more."

Distrust, caution and suspicion grew.

At Hogwarts, life tried to get back to normal, but breakfasts were now a rather quiet affair as the Daily Prophet's reports on attacks grew more and more serious and frequent, and some students had even received messages tied with black ribbon. Harry felt personally responsible. If it hadn't been for him, would they all be safe now? If it hadn't been for him, would Voldemort have returned at all?

He spoke to no one unless he had to, studied hard, still took as much exercise as he could possibly fit into his schedule, and continued to stare at Draco Malfoy across the Great Hall. 

****

* * *

**__**

The Daily Prophet, 21st April, 1998

"STUDENT KILLED IN ATTACK ON HOGWARTS

__

The youngest son of Ministry employee Arthur Weasley was killed in a vicious Death Eater attack on Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry late last night. Death Eater access to the school is under investigation.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry suffered another Death Eater attack late on Monday evening. It was the second attack on the school in two months. The primary target of this attack, as well as the previous one, seems to have been Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, who is a final-year student at the school.

The three Death Eaters broke systematically into all the rooms in the seventh-year boys' corridor of one of the House towers. Ronald Weasley, the youngest son of Arthur Weasley at the Ministry of Magic, was tragically killed in the attack. Harry Potter suffered injuries from a second-hand hit by the _Avada Kedavra _curse and is currently receiving treatment at an unknown location. His condition is reported to be stable. Two intruders were arrested and taken to Azkaban Prison, where they are now awaiting trial. The third intruder was found dead on the school grounds. The laboratories examining the body and the wand found that the death was a suicide. 

Investigations of how the Death Eaters gained entrance to the Hogwarts grounds despite the school's extensive protection system have so far had no results. The first attack was carried out by a Death Eater special agent who entered via a channel opened with the aid of an advanced spell decryption device. Hogwarts has since sought assistance from the Ministry and other experts to secure the grounds and the castle to prevent further break-ins. Investigators working the case have declined commenting, but an anonymous, reliable source reveals to the Prophet that they have been working according to the theory of a collaborator inside the castle. The implications of this will be obvious to the Daily Prophet's intelligent readers.

The Daily Prophet finds it remarkable that the Board at Hogwarts did not remove Harry Potter from the school after the first attack.

"We believed that Hogwarts was still the safest place in the wizarding world for Mr Potter, as well as for all the other students," says the Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore. "Now we must reconsider. The final exams may have to be postponed and moved to another location for security reasons."

The Weasley family have been unavailable for comment."

* * *

Some feared it might be the end of Hogwarts. Others only felt that when Harry Potter finally left, the other students would be quite safe.

The Board decided to send the students home for the remainder of the school year with the exception of the seventh-years, who were to stay and take their final exams as planned, under heavy surveillance. For security reasons, the students' quarters were consolidated from four to two, as two locations were easier to monitor and protect than four. The Slytherin students were moved to Ravenclaw, and the Hufflepuffs to Gryffindor. 

There were some mutterings and mumblings and grimacing at this, mostly from the Slytherins, but the students saw the necessity of it and only made token complaints. A few Hufflepuffs were heard protesting against moving in with the Gryffindor seventh-years – staying anywhere near Harry Potter was obviously connected with great risk. A few parents protested, too, but after they had been invited to Hogwarts to have the improved security system demonstrated to them, they agreed to let their children stay to finish their exams.

At the core of this turmoil, like the eye of the storm, Harry was still and silent. He had stopped studying, stopped exercising, stopped talking. He had stopped.

He was so very tired. 

He rarely left his room. He lay flat on his back on the bed with the hangings closed, staring up at nothing, staring into darkness, not wanting the light, as if it would make him see things he'd rather not see. He hardly even thought – at least he didn't shape his thoughts into words. They were too fragmented; they were shreds of images and emotions more than actual thoughts. He existed, passively. There was pain, not physical, but a deep, sick, blurred pain that made sleep impossible and made his stomach turn violently at the thought of food. He cried without meaning to; it just happened – now and then he was overwhelmed by emotion, tears simply filled his eyes and ran down his temples, into his hair. He stared up at the ceiling, the ceiling he could not see.

The hospital wing was closed, but Madam Pomfrey was still on duty and came in a couple of times a day to try to make him eat something. She opened windows to let fresh air into the room, gave him pills and potions to strengthen his soul and lighten his mind, but he found it hard to swallow. Everything turned to ash in his mouth. He only wanted her to go away with her brisk words and her cold air and her foul-tasting potions which would not cure him.

Dumbledore came, too, and Hermione, but Harry turned his face away and closed his eyes. He didn't want to hear Dumbledore's words of wisdom. They didn't help him, couldn't help him, because nothing could. And he couldn't stand seeing Hermione's pinched face and her worried eyes, red-rimmed from withheld tears; couldn't stand looking at her and knowing it was all his fault. 

"You didn't kill Ron, you idiot," she said vehemently one morning. "I know what you're thinking, Harry, and it isn't true. _It's not your fault_." 

He admired her. She was so strong, so sensible, in the face of her loss and her grief. But it was his fault, of course it was. None of this would have happened if it hadn't been for him, and all he could do was stay in his room and hope the protective devices would make the Death Eaters, the journalists, everyone stay away. 

__

Stay away, all of you. Stay away from me. Being near me is poison. Don't try to be friends with me, don't even talk to me. I'm infectious. Being close to me will kill you.

When he slept, which only happened for an hour or two at the time and rarely when he actually tried to sleep, he dreamt about sparkling, flashing wands, hoarse voices and that face, Ron's face – it was white and it shouted "they're here, they're here". 

Every time, he woke up screaming. Sometimes he had to stagger over to the basin to throw up; sometimes he felt he couldn't breathe and ran to the window, flung it open and took great gulps of air. Every time, he realised that waking up from the nightmare didn't make it go away – it was real, it was true. Ron was gone, Ron was dead, and it was all Harry's fault.

The Gryffindor tower was high and Harry did think of jumping out and ending it all, because he couldn't imagine this pain ever lessening, couldn't imagine himself ever feeling better. The only solution he could see, the only thing that would solve all the problems, was himself being dead. 

He had tried to jump, a couple of days after he had returned to Hogwarts from St. Mungo's where his dark burn from the Avada Kedavra curse had been treated. But Dumbledore, or whoever it was, had placed a _Claustra_ spell on the window and no objects could pass, bodies or smaller things, in either direction. Only air. 

Often he wished, he really wished, that the Death Eaters had fulfilled their mission; that they had taken him away and let Voldemort kill him. Being dead was the only thing that made sense, and the only thing that seemed even remotely fair.

* * *

Draco followed Dumbledore up the stairs. His heart beat in his throat, and it wasn't only because the stairs were long and steep. He had never been in Gryffindor Tower before; he had never even been sure where it was located, and it was strange that he was going there now. His errand was odd – in fact, he wasn't entirely sure what it was. He had only asked Dumbledore if he could see Potter, and Dumbledore had asked no questions. He had looked piercingly at Draco for a long while and then inclined his head.

When Draco had heard about the attack on Potter, he had panicked. He had tried to go out into the garden but had been stopped by some Magical Law Enforcement officers. Instead, he had paced the corridors, run up and down stairs, thinking about Potter, thinking about what had almost been lost, thinking that he had to _talk_ to Potter. But he hadn't known what he wanted to say. Tell Potter that they were on the same side, really? That things had gone too far for Draco to remain silent and passive? Tell Potter that he, Draco, was not the collaborator everyone whispered about?

So here Draco was now, following the Headmaster up the long, winding stairs, so nervous he thought he might be sick. As always when he was feeling nauseous he was oversensitive to smells, and he was aware of the smell of the Gryffindor tower that differed from both the smell of the Ravenclaw rooms and that of the Slytherin dungeons. Slytherin House smelled the way it looked: a dark green scent of stone and damp walls, of darkness and well-kept secrets. The Ravenclaw Common Room had a faint, somehow translucent smell that reminded Draco of rain or lakewater. The Gryffindor smell was drier and dustier, with a hint of hot metal. Draco's throat tightened.

He tried not to think about what would happen when they entered the Gryffindor Common Room. He hoped no one but Potter would be around – he didn't want to think about the eyes on him, the whispers, the comments. What would he say to Potter? And what would Potter do?

But Dumbledore went straight past the Common Room and up further stairs, and Draco followed him through a narrow corridor where light fell in through a row of small windows to the left. They passed by several closed doors to the right, until Dumbledore stopped at the end of the corridor and knocked on the very last door.

Madam Pomfrey opened and let them into Potter's room. It was rather large – larger than Draco's own in Slytherin – and had two high, pointed windows. It was airy and light and furnished the same way most students' rooms were – a desk and a straight-backed chair, two armchairs, a basin in the corner. The hangings around the four-poster bed were closed. Draco swallowed nervously.

"The Headmaster is here, Potter," Madam Pomfrey said to the hangings. "Don't upset him," she added brusquely to Draco, gave Dumbledore a nod and left. 

Dumbledore pulled an armchair up to the bed.

"I'm going to open the hangings, Harry," he said gently. "I have brought a visitor. Mr Malfoy would like to speak to you."

There was a deafening silence. After several minutes, during which Draco thought his heartbeat would drown him, Potter mumbled something from behind the drapes:

"I don't want to talk. Please just... just go away."

"You don't have to talk, Harry. I think Mr Malfoy will do the talking." Dumbledore opened the hangings slowly, leant forward and touched Potter's shoulder. "He will not stay long. I will come back in a little while, Harry, and then I do want you to talk. I expect you to."

He squeezed Potter's shoulder reassuringly, left the room and closed the door behind him.

Draco's hands were shaking, and his heart continued to beat so loudly he thought Potter must hear it. He went up to the bed, sat down in the chair and felt stupid.

Potter was lying with his back to Draco, curled up in a foetal position and looking small and fragile. He was dressed in jeans and t-shirt, but his spine showed through the fabric and his feet were bare. It made him look very young and extremely vulnerable.

Draco was overwhelmed by his own reaction. There were so many emotions – he was embarrassed for Potter's sake, for him being so utterly exposed and unprotected, for having Draco, or anyone, see him in this state. He was embarrassed for himself – what was it he had wanted to say? What had he thought he could do? And he certainly hadn't expected to feel so deeply, painfully sorry for Potter. He was shaken by the strength of his own emotion, by the pain of seeing Potter curled up like that, motionless, as if he was afraid of breaking if he moved.

Draco cleared his throat.

"Potter..."

There was movement, suddenly. Potter began to turn around, slowly and painfully, to face Draco, blinking against the light. He had lost weight that he really couldn't afford to lose; he looked tired beyond description and was frighteningly thin. Draco shivered and thought it was a good thing Lord Voldemort couldn't see Potter or reach him now – he'd be no match for the Dark Lord's strength. Actually, he didn't look as if he would even try to fight. He looked like someone who didn't care if he died.

Draco swallowed something that was burning his throat.

Potter sat up; he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and slowly pushed himself to an upright position. His hands and feet looked too big, and his hair, always untidy, was more dishevelled than ever. The dark, tired eyes met Draco's.

"What do you want, Malfoy?" His voice was flat. "Did you come here to gloat? Well, you've seen me now. I feel like shit. I guess that's what you wanted to know. You've seen it for yourself, so you can go now."

"I already knew you were feeling like shit," said Draco, stung. "Everyone knows that. I didn't come here to _gloat_ – wherever did you find that word, Potter? I wanted to know if there was anything.... anything I could do."

Potter stared at him. He opened his mouth, silently, like a fish, and then closed it again. Draco stared back defiantly.

"_Do_?" Potter said. "No, Malfoy, there's nothing you or anyone can do, unless you can bring Ron back to life."

"I'm sorry," said Draco curtly. "Weasley was an idiot, but idiots don't necessarily deserve to die."

Potter gave a sort of snort. It wasn't a laugh; it was more as if he was spitting something out, and it made Draco shiver with discomfort.

"At least you're honest, Malfoy."

"Yeah. Well. Everyone knows I didn't like Weasley, so why pretend now."

Draco looked at Potter, at the tousled black hair, the dark circles below his eyes, the pale skin and the mouth that looked blurred, as if Potter had cried so much his face had begun to dissolve. He felt vaguely ashamed at enjoying the chance to look at Potter like this, so closely, so thoroughly; at being allowed to do it. No need to look away or try to be stealthy.

And Potter looked back, very still.

"Everything's a fucking mess, Potter," Draco said. "Actually I'm not quite sure why I'm here. I think I just wanted to tell you that..." He stalled. What _did_ he want to tell Potter? _I'm sorry about how things have turned out? I miss staring at you across the Great Hall at meals? It wasn't me – I wasn't the one who let them in?_ He finished lamely: "...that I'm not... with them."

Potter didn't reply, but his eyes were awake now, steady on Draco's face. Draco felt naked.

"I'm not with them," he repeated. "And I'm going to try to get into the Academy. The Advanced DADA programme. I guess that's where you're heading, too?"

Potter looked down at his hands and shook his head slowly.

"I don't know," he said in a low voice. "I don't know anything any more. I don't know how the hell I'll be able to sit my exams. I can't concentrate for longer than five minutes, and when I try to think, everything just goes to pieces."

He stopped himself and looked embarrassed.

"I don't know," he said again, with a vague gesture. "I'll probably be useless anyway. There's just no energy any more."

"What's the alternative then, Potter? If you don't go to the Academy, where will you go?"

Potter just shrugged. "Go out there and let myself be killed? That would be the simplest solution, really. For them and for me."

Draco was seized by sudden anger that rushed through him like wildfire. He shot up from his chair, hands balled into fists.

"What _the fuck _is this, Potter? Are you going to lie here and sniffle and feel sorry for yourself, is that it? Are you going to go for the coward solution? I've never liked you much, Potter, but I have to say that for you – you've never been a coward. You can do better than this."

Potter was staring up at him now, mouth hanging slightly open. He looked like an idiot. Draco wanted to hit him.

"For fuck's sake, Potter, stop feeling sorry for yourself. Weasley's gone, there's nothing you can do about it. But it wasn't your fault, you moron. _You_ didn't kill him. What the hell do you think he'd have thought if he'd seen you like this? You don't think he'd have been proud, do you? You don't think he'd have wanted you to be a weepy mess? Get out of bed, Potter. Get your bloody NEWTs. Go to the Academy, and then go out and kick that madman's arse."

Something that looked like the beginnings of a smile crept into Potter's eyes, a faint glitter that had not been there before. Draco, looking down at the tired face, faltered as the troubled eyes lost their darkness and regained their clear green colour. The famous scar on Potter's forehead was very pronounced against the pale skin.

" 'That madman'? Is that Voldemort you're referring to?"

Draco winced at the name.

"That's who I mean," he said. "He _is_ mad. I've met him. Mad."

"I know, Malfoy. I've met him, too."

Potter smiled weakly up at Draco, and Draco frightened himself by wanting to bend down and kiss the blurred, smiling mouth. He took a step back before he could do anything he'd regret.

"Think about it, Potter," he said hoarsely. "Weasley always wanted you to be a hero."

Feeling that neither of them could take any more, Draco turned around and left the room without looking back or saying goodbye. He shut the door behind him and leant against it for a moment, closing his eyes and trying to swallow his heartbeat.

He had done it. He had talked to Potter, finally. For the first time in their lives, they had _talked_. And Potter hadn't been hostile. He had smiled. 

Draco shook his head, opened his eyes and began to walk slowly along the corridor. As he descended the stairs from Gryffindor Tower, he met Dumbledore. The Headmaster opened his mouth to ask him something, but he couldn't take it. He only mumbled "Sorry" and started running. He ran all the way back to his room.

*

When Malfoy left, Harry lay back against the pillows. Tears of exhaustion and perhaps of something else, too, spilled warm and wet down his face.

For the first time in weeks, he felt awake and _present_. How was that for irony? That the first ray of light that had pierced his mind since Ron died, had been directed there by Draco Malfoy.

* * *

Madam Pomfrey did a double take.

"Oh! You've finished your Laetificans syrup," she said, beaming. "Unless," she gave Harry a stern look, "you poured it down the drain?"

Harry, sitting at his desk trying to cram the ingredients list for a complex potion into his tired, uncooperative brain, shook his head.

"No, I didn't. I took it. And it was foul, as usual."

"Medicine doesn't usually taste of strawberries or toffee," Madam Pomfrey said tartly. "You should be grateful it's not as bad as Skele-Gro."

Harry gave her a weak smile.

"Okay, okay," he said, "I'm grateful."

Madam Pomfrey's eyes were both warm and worried as she looked at the frighteningly thin boy.

"I just hope you will start eating properly soon," she said. "You haven't finished your breakfast, young man."

Harry's smile went out like a candle flame. "I can't," he said. "Everything just tastes like... mud, or something."

Madam Pomfrey mumbled something about Sena powder, and left carrying the tray.

Harry pushed his hair from his forehead and rubbed his eyes. The black hole inside him was still there, the burning screaming darkness that he tried to avoid, but which still swallowed him from time to time and made him cry, yell and break things without really knowing what he was doing. He didn't think it would ever leave him entirely. He knew he ought to look forward, concentrate on his exams and start going outside to get exercise and air, but everything felt so _heavy_. As if the air itself weighed down his shoulders and made it difficult for him to breathe or move or speak.

But it was better than it had been, albeit marginally – and he couldn't stop marvelling at the fact that it was Malfoy who had made it so.

Harry hadn't attended lessons or been to meals in the Great Hall for weeks, and he actually missed seeing Malfoy. A smile touched his face briefly at the thought, and he shook his head, sighed and returned to the Potions ingredients.

When Madam Pomfrey came back in the afternoon to hand him two kinds of horrible-looking potions, he told her he'd go down to dinner that evening.

* * *

Dinner at Hogwarts was a rather quiet affair these days, after most of the students had left. Draco's gaze still kept going to the Gryffindor table although Potter hadn't been down for meals for three weeks. He sighed, took a mouthful of pumpkin juice and then very nearly choked on it. He had been looking down on his plate and had missed Potter unobtrusively entering the Hall – now Potter slid quietly down in his seat, trying not to glance at the empty space next to him. Granger leant over to put a hand on his arm, and he gave her a smile that didn't reach his eyes. 

Draco looked down on his plate again, careful not to show anything, but warmth had lodged itself in his chest and made him want to laugh or dance or do something really stupid. Potter was back, and life had suddenly adjusted itself that one inch that made the difference between uncomfortable and just right.

* * * 

Hermione sat at the desk in her room, looking unseeingly out of the window. The glass was old and uneven and distorted the view. Sky and lawns rippled, and tree-trunks snaked their way from the ground into the crowns of the trees. But Hermione didn't pay attention to the view. Her hands were playing absent-mindedly with the Time-Turner.

The Time-Turner.

Professor McGonagall's voice echoed like a ghost voice at the back of Hermione's mind. It was her voice from the beginning of the sixth year, when Hermione had asked renewed permission to use a Time-Turner to be able to fit all the subjects she wanted to take into her schedule, as well having time for her Prefect duties. 

"A Time-Turner places great responsibility on its user, Miss Granger," McGonagall had said sternly. "I know you understand all this, but I would still like to repeat it to you. A Time-Turner is a powerful and potentially very dangerous magical object. If used irresponsibly, it could cause great disruption. Time-travel is immensely complex magic. Changing, or trying to change, the course of history may have very serious consequences, reaching further than even the wisest wizard can foresee. I cannot stress this enough, Miss Granger: _Never_ use the Time-Turner for anything but the specific purposes you have received permission to use it for. Never try to use it for any other personal gain. In your case, this means _never_ use the Time-Turner for anything but fitting all of your subjects and classes into your schedule. Misuse of powerful magical objects is a serious crime."

Hermione had nodded, aware of the responsibility placed on her by McGonagall's and Dumbledore's faith and trust in her.

"Yes, Professor McGonagall."

But now, with the recent horrible events fresh and raw in her mind, Hermione wondered whether this wasn't a time where you could, or should, break the rules.

In their third year, Harry and she had used her Time-Turner to change the course of events. They had saved a hippogriff and rescued a man. So why shouldn't they use it now, to prevent the death of a seventeen-year-old boy? A boy who hadn't been intended to die but had only happened to get in the way. A boy who had died protecting his best friend.

A tear fell from the tip of Hermione's chin onto the wood surface of the desk. She started and wiped a hand across her face. This was unbearable. The whole situation was. She had never known the real, raw pain of loss before. She had missed Sirius, of course, but she had never been close to him, not the way Harry had. But now she understood why Harry had raged and snapped and over-reacted all through his sixth year. Now she understood what that look in his eyes was, where it came from. She could see it in her own eyes every time she looked in a mirror.

But Harry... He didn't rage any more. All his energy was gone. He just seemed tired, so very very tired.

Hermione angrily wiped away more tears and stared defiantly at the Time-Turner. Then she snatched it up, put it in her pocket and went to knock on Harry's door.

Hermione was glad to see that lately, he had at least begun to get out of bed in the morning and make attempts at studying. He was sitting at his desk when she entered the room, his History of Magic book open in front of him. His eyes were tired when he looked up, but he smiled at her, warmly. The warmth turned into worry when he saw that she'd been crying. He didn't ask why. There was no need.

She sat down in one of the armchairs.

"Harry, I've been thinking."

He said nothing.

"The Time-Turner." She took it out of her pocket and held it out to him. It lay there in her palm, looking very innocent, as if it was only an old time-piece on a gold chain.

Harry looked at it, and then back at her.

"I've been thinking about that, too," he said. "But I don't think we can."

"I don't know," Hermione said. "Most of the time I don't think so either. But sometimes I feel _anything_, any consequences it might have, would be better than this."

Harry shook his head.

"When we used it back in our third year," he said, "it was on an order from Dumbledore, and we were only thirteen then. Now we're seventeen, we're of age, we can be tried in court and sentenced to... well, the Kiss. If we did it, we'd have Ron back, alive and well and free – but you and I would end up in Azkaban."

"There would be a price to pay," Hermione agreed, "but it would be a very short prison sentence for something like that. I know there are Dementors at Azkaban again, but this isn't an offence we'd ever risk getting the Kiss for."

Harry nodded and looked down in his book. He closed it and followed the gold script on the cover with a fingertip, slowly.

"There are principles to consider, of course," said Hermione. "I would betray Dumbledore's and McGonagall's and the Ministry's trust, for one thing, and we would both break the law. The laws against misuse of magical objects aren't there for nothing. And if we break them, we demonstrate disregard for them."

Harry was still looking down at his book.

"And there's another thing," said Hermione. "If we use the Time-Turner, we might risk _you_. I believe Dumbledore when he says the safest place for you right now is either Hogwarts or Grimmauld Place. In Azkaban, we have no idea what might happen to you. No one can escape – well, unless they're Sirius Black, anyway – but you don't know who or what can get _in_. You can't trust Dementors to be loyal to one side, and Voldemort knows exactly how to handle Dementors to get them to do what he wants."

There was a long silence before Harry abruptly looked up. The pain in his eyes made Hermione draw a breath.

"I would hate it if the real reason we don't use the Time-Turner is that _I'm scared_," he said defiantly. "Ron died protecting me. The least I can do is to risk something in return, to get him back."

"Yes," said Hermione with tears stinging her eyes again, "but you're forgetting something else. A lot of other people's lives depend on you. If we use the Time-Turner, and you die without even a chance to fight Voldemort, the wizarding world will be exposed to the rule of one of the worst tyrants in history."

Harry opened his mouth to say something and then closed it again. Hermione got up from the armchair, took the two steps that separated them and hugged him. He stiffened for a moment, but then his arms slowly crept around her waist and he leant his head against her. She smoothed his hair.

"Nothing is easy any more," he said, muffled by her jumper. "I wish we were thirteen again and could just act on impulse – do what we felt was right that very moment without thinking too much about what might happen."

"But we're not," said Hermione. "We're not."

Her fingers slid through Harry's hair again and again. She felt an almost painful tenderness for him, for who he was, for the loyalty and friendship he was capable of. Her heart ached for him, for the difficult decisions he had to make and the decisions fate had already made for him. Finally, she said:

"I think people who lose someone close to them always wish for a Time-Turner, or _something_ to make things return to what they were. We happen to have a Time-Turner, but that doesn't give us the right to use it. It doesn't make it right for us to use it."

She felt Harry nod against her tummy, and she let him go. His eyes were dry and infinitely sad, and he managed a smile up at her.

"I've been thinking about this a lot," he said quietly. "I've even thought about stealing the Time-Turner from you. I miss Ron like..." He shook his head. "I can't describe it. And I know you feel the same. But we've come to the right conclusion – we can't do this. We can't use the Time-Turner."

Hermione suddenly realised that they had both known the outcome of this talk from the moment it began, but they had needed to have it all the same. They had needed to show each other their loyalty with Ron; show that they were both willing to go to some lengths to get him back. And they had needed to reach the decision not to use the Time-Turner together. It was a decision that was too big for either of them to make on their own.

Hermione bent down, kissed Harry on the cheek and quietly left the room.

* * *

**__**

June, 1998

The exams were over, their last term at Hogwarts was over, and it was a relief when the Leaver's Dinner was over, too. The Great Hall was beautifully decorated with flowers, garlands, candles and House colours, but despite the grandeur and the excellent food and wine, the festive mood just hadn't descended on them.

After Dumbledore's finishing speech, where he gave the students a few words of wisdom for the future, wished them the best of luck and hoped to see as many of them as possible at the Academy in the autumn, everyone rose rather hurriedly to escape the oppressive atmosphere. The students would continue their celebrations less formally in the smaller Dippet Hall, with drinks and music and dancing. Members of staff would check on them now and then, but otherwise this was the students' own party.

Harry was exhausted. More than anything, he wanted to go back to his room and sleep, but Hermione coaxed him into coming with her at least for a drink.

"It's our Leaver's Party, Harry," she said. "Our first and last and only one. Even if we _could_ wish for better circumstances, we have to make the most of it. We'll hate ourselves later if we don't."

Hermione, always so sensible. He looked at her with affection and pulled her into a hug. She hugged him back, hard, and then turned away with tears in her eyes.

"Hermione..." His hand was still on her shoulder.

"I'm sorry," she muttered and fished for a handkerchief in her minimal, embroidered silk purse that didn't look as if it could hold much more than a lipstick. "So... stupid."

She blew her nose and walked firmly ahead of him to Dippet Hall.

"It does make you think of him more than ever, doesn't it," Harry said into her ear as they entered the dimly lit room.

There was no need to specify who. There was no need to try not to talk about him.

"He had looked forward to this so much. Leaving school... going to Romania." Hermione's jaw set. "But we mustn't allow ourselves to think too much about that, or we'll go mad. The only thing we can do is go on, study hard and prepare ourselves. I'm just worried that this will make us hate Voldemort so much we lose our heads. We can't afford to let it cloud our minds. We need to be sharp and strong and smart to defeat him."

It warmed Harry, the way she said "we". He wasn't alone, after all. Perhaps he had never been as alone as he had thought.

Suddenly Hermione had a furrow between her eyebrows. 

"Malfoy is staring at you," she said unexpectedly. "What does he want?"

Harry started. It was true, Malfoy really was staring at them from across the room. Harry felt himself blush crimson and was very grateful for the dim light.

"He came to see me some weeks ago," he said. "When I was ill."

Hermione turned and looked at him. "What – Malfoy? _Did_ he? What for?"

"I... I'm not sure. He told me that... he said... he said he isn't with _them_. That's word perfect. He 'isn't with them'. And he told me he's going to the Academy."

After a few seconds of astonished silence, Hermione burst out laughing. "Oh... oh..." she gasped. "You know, I always thought nothing would surprise me more than seeing you pass your Potions exam. But this – !" And she laughed again, so hard she had to wipe her eyes.

"Yeah, very funny," Harry mumbled, deeply embarrassed. "I think I'll go over and talk to him."

"Do," Hermione choked. "Do, or he'll have to stare at you like that all evening."

Harry tried to look casual and relaxed as he crossed the room. He was aware of eyes following him, aware of faces turning to see the unprecedented sight of Malfoy and Potter together. Malfoy looked completely unperturbed. He was holding a glass between his fingers the same way he had held phials and glass tubes in Potions class; delicately and with great precision.

"So this is it, then," he said to Harry.

"What...?"

Harry hated being confused, and right now his confusion was so strong he could taste it in his mouth. 

"We've finished school. We're leaving. We're supposed to be adults and know what we want." Malfoy gave him a close-lipped smile that somehow made Harry's stomach float.

He wanted to hide his burning face, but at the same time he was exhilarated; he wanted to laugh and sing and turn cartwheels across the dance floor. It was the first time he'd felt happy since Ron's death, and the thought made him feel guilty – for being here, being alive, and enjoying himself. But Malfoy's hair gleamed golden in the light from the few torches, and his eyes didn't let go of Harry's for a second. Harry smiled back at him, a warm and genuine smile, the first one he could ever remember having given Malfoy. The ice wine at dinner must have gone to his head.

"And do you?" he said.

It was wonderful to see Malfoy's cheeks darken; oh, it was beautiful. The feeling that sank into the pit of his stomach was close to what he felt when he had just caught the Snitch.

"Perhaps," Malfoy said in a low voice. "Perhaps I do."

They looked at each other for a few very long seconds, and then the music began. Pansy Parkinson came up to them, slid her arm under Malfoy's and rubbed herself against him like a cat.

"Come, darling, dance with me," Harry saw her lips say as she looked up into Malfoy's eyes and gave him what was probably meant to be a very seductive smile.

Malfoy looked at Harry, shrugged as if to say "What can I do?" and followed her out on the dance floor. She turned her head to shoot Harry a glance that was both contemptuous and triumphant.

Harry sauntered back to Hermione, who had thankfully stopped laughing, and danced alternately with her and Parvati for most of the evening. He was intensely aware of Malfoy's every movement, and although they didn't do more than cast an occasional glance at each other, he knew that Malfoy was equally aware of his. He didn't stop to analyse his feelings, not sure he really wanted to know what the warmth at the pit of his stomach meant, or the fact that he twice went to the bathroom not because he needed to go, but to check himself in the mirror to make sure he looked his best. He was still very thin, and it didn't really suit him, but the dress robes did, and the colour in his cheeks did, too.

Parvati smiled up at him when he danced the last dance with her, and the look in her eyes told him she didn't find him at all bad, either. But at present there was only one person in the room whose opinion mattered to Harry, and that person certainly wasn't Parvati Patil.

Their last night at Hogwarts was at an end. It was almost morning; the musicians packed up their instruments and the sky outside was pearly light. Someone opened a window to let in birdsong and clear, sweet air.

As Hermione and Harry left Dippet Hall to go to their rooms, Malfoy caught up with them.

"See you at the Academy, then, Potter," he said.

He held out his hand, and from the wry look in his eyes, Harry knew they were both thinking about the same thing – at that time seven years ago, when Harry had refused to take Malfoy's proffered hand on the Hogwarts Express. But it _was_ seven years ago. Things had changed, the world had changed, they had changed.

Harry took Malfoy's hand and felt a thrill along his spine as he did so. He looked into the grey eyes and saw no hostility, no deception, no malice. There was only wonder, and perhaps there was a wish.

"Have a good summer, Malfoy," he replied quietly.

Malfoy nodded, turned on his heel and headed towards the Ravenclaw quarters.

* * *

"My lord." 

Lucius Malfoy bowed as Lord Voldemort entered the room. The Dark Lord seemed to be in a hurry; his stride was long and his cloak flowed behind him

"Good morning, Lucius. You wished to speak to me? I only have a minute."

"Yes, mylord. This will not take long. I wanted to ask your advice."

"Yes?"

Lucius Malfoy's face was tense and strained, whether from anger or worry was impossible to say. He also looked as if he had not slept for several nights. His skin was taut and there were dark shadows under his eyes.

"I have heard from... from our contact at Hogwarts. Draco plans to go to the new Academy."

Lord Voldemort looked faintly amused but unsurprised. "So I have heard." 

A flicker of confusion crossed Lucius Malfoy's face. He tried to meet Lord Voldemort's eyes, but the other man was casually inspecting his midnight blue velvet robes, the amused look lingering on his face.

"Should I let him...?" Lucius asked.

Lord Voldemort brushed some invisible lint from his clothes. "Can he afford it?"

"Yes, mylord. He is not entirely dependent on me any longer. He has a small private fortune, from his grandmother, that he came into when he turned eighteen."

"Then let him do it."

Lucius' face fell.

"What...?"

Voldemort looked up and laughed his wheezing, near-silent laugh that always sent a shiver down Lucius Malfoy's spine.

"I said let him do it, Lucius. We need as much information as we can get from that new, crawling anthill of Dumbledore's, and I'm not altogether sure of the sources we already have. Perhaps they won't even be accepted. Draco certainly will."

"Yes, I have no doubt about that," said Lucius, pale to the lips. "But..."

"You are afraid that Dumbledore will indoctrinate your son? You are afraid that that pretty, stubborn head of Draco's will be turned – irreversibly?" Voldemort was still amused, and Lucius straightened up, frowning. "Yes, I see you do." Voldemort placed a heavy hand on Lucius' shoulder, and Lucius winced like he always did at the icy, burning touch. "Leave it to me, my dear Lucius. If we need Draco before he is ready to come back, I will call him home, and he will come regardless. But I believe he will return to us willingly and of his own accord, and that, of course, is to be preferred. I'm sure that having him at the Academy will prove most useful. Be patient."

"Thank you, mylord." Lucius had regained his poise, although the tension was still there in his face. "Then I will take no action for the time being."

"Patience," Lord Voldemort repeated, turned around with a swirl of his elegant robes and left the room.

* * *

**__**

AUGUST, 1998

The room is dark and warm but he senses a bright light somewhere. He doesn't see it, not yet. It's as if it's inside of him. It's shimmering an eerie green, and it's getting closer. 

After a few seconds of confusion he understands why he's uncomfortable: It's the same bright green light that appears in his mind and his memory when he is confronted with Dementors. The flash of bright green light that means destruction of everything that is warm and safe. The bright light of death.

All this is slow. Then it speeds up.

The door is flung open and there is light in the corridor outside, not eerie green but the ordinary warm golden light of Gryffindor tower. Against it is Ron's silhouette. He rushes into the room and screams at the top of his voice: "Harry, wake up! Your wand – get your wand! Move! They're here!"

Harry scrambles out of bed, shocked awake by the white-hot rush of adrenaline. He grabs his glasses and his wand, and as three dark shapes enter the room noiselessly and frighteningly swiftly behind Ron, Ron shields him with his own body. And that is the last clear image before chaos descends. Curses and hexes and spells fly across the room; some of them collide in the air and destroy each other. There are flashes of red and purple, and sparks of ghostly blue. The dark figures move around the room, harsh voices call out, and Harry hears himself utter spells long forgotten, spells he didn't know he knew. His voice is clear and commanding, much stronger than he feels. Light blazes from his wand, and two of the shadows crumple and sink to the floor. Then there is the sharp flash of green light, showing up Ron's red hair in a weird muddy colour. A scorching, searing pain explodes in Harry's arm, and at the very same moment, Ron's body slumps against him heavily and they both fall. 

But Harry is the only one screaming. Ron is silent. And so very still.

* * *

Harry woke up with a second scream on its way. He was already halfway out of bed, panting and sweating and shaking, wildly flinging the covers off. He made a conscious effort to halt his movements, stifle the scream, make himself breathe...

__

Breathe. Focus. Breathe.

He inhaled slowly, deeply, and exhaled equally slowly. Grimaced at the metal aftertaste of fear in his mouth. Looked around the dark room to make sure there were no shadows moving and no green light, and then sank back against the pillows. Tears began to ooze slowly down his feverishly burning face. 

He had had this dream innumerable times, but the pain of it never seemed to lessen. He wondered if it ever would. The emptiness, the void that Ron had left behind was still there, as real and as merciless as before. Pain. Emptiness. Guilt.

The door opened softly, and as an ironic, visual echo of the dream, the dark shape of a man towered against the light.

"Harry? Bad dreams again?"

"Yes. It's nothing. Go back to bed."

"Do you want anything? A glass of water?"

"Nothing, thanks, Remus. I'm fine."

The door closed, and the room was like a grave, as dark and as silent. The darkness that hadn't quite left him, that returned to him in waves, came back now. And the thoughts, the unavoidable thoughts, returned with it.

__

A grave. I might as well join them. How many people have died for me? How many have died to protect me? How many more will die, if this doesn't stop? I wish I hadn't fought. I wish I had just pushed Ron away and let myself be killed. 

Harry turned on his side and cried until he fell asleep again, face hot and itchy with tears, cheek pressed into the wet pillow.

And that was how Lupin found him as he came into the room to check on him in the bleak morning light. Huddled under the covers, arms hugging the pillow, the smooth cheek still streaked with tears. He looked so boyish when his face was relaxed in sleep, but as soon as he awoke, the boyishness would be gone. There would be guilt and fear and the heavy burden of expectation, weariness covered up with determination. He would be a very young man with a thousand years in his eyes.

Remus was very fond of Harry, more than fond – at times he wished Harry were the son he had never had. But what parent can ever protect their child to the extent they would want to? What can they do to protect their child from evil? He knew it wasn't within his power to ease the pain. There was nothing he could do except pull up and straighten the bedclothes over the sleeping body, touch the boy's hair and try to send some tenderness and love into his dreams.

He felt utterly helpless.


	6. Northern Lights

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks and love to my beta readers, **Plumeria**, **Lowi**, **Naadi**** Moonfeather**, and **Darklites** for their invaluable help! I've added and rewritten parts of the chapter after getting comments back from the beta readers, and any mistakes are mine.

Author: Penguin

OF SNOW AND DARK WATER

"The sympathetic connexion supposed to exist between a man and the weapon which has wounded him is probably founded on the notion that the blood on the weapon continues to feel with the blood in his body."  
_Sir James Frazer, The Golden Bough_

Chapter 5 – NORTHERN LIGHTS

**_September,_****_ 1998_**

The very first term at the Hogwarts Academy began with subdued pomp and festivities. A few journalists and prominent guests had been invited to the grand opening, but mostly the crowds consisted of students and staff.

The Academy buildings were very different in style from those at Hogwarts School but were no less impressive. And, as Hermione pointed out to Harry when they seated themselves in the Assembly Hall for the opening ceremony, there would be a wonderful absence of disturbing elements of the Myrtle or Peeves type.

"Unless," she said dryly, "Dumbledore has talked some of the ghosts into moving here from the castle, for atmosphere."

Harry laughed.

An extremely nervous man from the International Board of Magical Education held the inauguration speech. His hands shook so badly he kept fumbling and pushing his sheets of parchment to the floor and had to _Accio_ them back up, his face turning redder and his voice more tremulous each time. When he was finally done, he collected his sheaf of notes and descended from the podium with immense, visible relief. Harry wiped sweat from his brow.

"I barely heard a word of that," he whispered to Hermione. "I was too nervous watching _him_ being nervous."

"You didn't miss much," she whispered back. "It was a lot of nothing in a lot of words."

"I'm not surprised."

"International Board of Magical Education…! If he ever used to teach, I feel really sorry for his students."

From a back row, Draco watched the bushy brown head lean towards the untidy black one.

He had spent his summer at Hogwarts, sometimes helping the Academy librarian shelve books, sometimes having tea with Dumbledore, but otherwise being left pretty much to his own devices. It had been a lonely, depressing, frustrating, and occasionally brilliant summer. In a way, he'd had the kind of summer holidays he'd dreamt of as a child: no one to tell him what to do or when to get up, leaving him to pursue his own interests all day long and stay up all night if he wished… but ironically, it was too late for anything to be simple or purely enjoyable any more.

Draco watched as Granger whispered a comment in Potter's ear and made him laugh. Something in Draco's stomach twisted itself into a tight coil. Fear, anticipation, excitement… it was all there. Draco had wanted to get to know Potter, and this would be his chance. They were at the Academy now, and in the same programme.

Dumbledore, beaming, cut the silk ribbon with a pair of enormous old scissors and pronounced the Academy officially opened. There was a burst of applause, and the ribbon, instead of falling limply to the floor, transformed itself into hundreds of butterflies in all colours imaginable. They swarmed and whirled in a bright, gaudy cloud towards the glass dome ceiling, and vanished.

As the audience filed out of the impressive, glass-walled Assembly Hall, Draco waylaid Potter and Granger and had the satisfaction of seeing Potter blush.

"Malfoy!"

It was no calm and measured greeting – it came out more like a startled squeak. The coil in Draco's stomach dissolved into warmth. Was it possible that Potter, too, had been nervous about their first meeting…?

"Potter," he replied, more amused than nervous now. "And Granger. Nice to see you." A hint of irony was present in his voice, too; identifiable though swathed in politeness.

"Hello," Granger said stiffly, looking more than ever as if she'd just swallowed her wand. "How come you were accepted for the Academy, Malfoy?"

Blunt as ever.

"On the same grounds you were, I assume. Good grades and talent."

She opened her mouth and closed it again. Draco could see how much it annoyed her, not knowing how to respond to a combined insult and compliment, and he gave her a lazy smile.

Potter was still flustered, and the combination of his confusion and Granger's silent fury filled Draco with quiet, triumphant joy. For all his own insecurity, he still knew how to play people.

"What rooms are you in?"

Granger's eyes were shooting dangerous sparks, and she looked ready to stamp her foot like a little girl and say "I'd rather _die_ than tell you!" but Potter pulled himself together and said, "I'm in building C, top floor. You?"

"One floor below you."

Draco had to make a conscious effort not to make a face as he said the words. Some things never changed. No matter how hard he'd tried, no matter what position his family's social status gave him, he'd always been one floor down from Potter.

Potter didn't seem to recognise the symbolism, or at least he didn't acknowledge it. He only nodded and smiled, flushing a little again with what seemed like pleasure. "Great."

_What's__ so great about that?_ Granger's expression clearly said. She looked at Draco as if he'd been one of Hagrid's beloved venomous toads. He smiled at her again.

"Coming to the reception?"

"I never miss out on champagne if I can help it," Potter said, and grinned. "Sad, eh? But that's what comes of growing up poor."

The casual comment interested Draco.

"Your Muggle relatives, are they poor?"

Granger gave a contemptuous snort, but Potter explained, patient and unashamed: "No, they're not poor. They're not rich, either, but sort of comfortably off. I just meant they didn't spend much on _me_."

Draco glanced sideways at Potter, thrown by the information. There was so much he didn't know, so much he had never understood. He wasn't sure whether he was mostly scared or interested.

"Well, get some compensation now, then," he suggested. "It looks quite impressive, at least from a distance. I'll see you later."

He gave them a nod and left in the direction of the laden tables, where people were forming little groups, and trays with champagne glasses were slowly gliding through the air.

Harry turned to Hermione, whose eyes were dark with fury.

"Oh, go on, Hermione! Is it really that bad, that he talks to me?"

She gritted her teeth and refused to look at him.

"Why are you so taken in by him all of a sudden?" she threw back.

"I'm not taken in. I'm only giving him the benefit of the doubt."

Hermione snorted. "The benefit of the doubt…! You're like a puppy bounding in front of his feet and stumbling over its own paws, so eager to please that… that…."

Harry's face went hot with anger and embarrassment. "That's not fair!" he said, blushing even deeper at the childishness of his own words. "I don't... it's not…" He stopped and took a deep breath. "Why are you like this? I didn't think you had a problem with it – with my talking to him. What about the Leavers' Ball…? You even encouraged me to talk to him then."

"But I didn't… I didn't think it was _serious_!"

"Serious? What's that supposed to mean? Have you forgotten Malfoy came to see me when I was ill? That he was actually the one who made me… you know, get out of bed. Get back to life." Harry blushed again. He hadn't meant to say anything quite so pretentious. "Even _you_ didn't manage that!"

He regretted the words the moment they were out. How could he have said something like that to Hermione, of all people? Hermione who had been as devastated by Ron's death as Harry had, Hermione who had come to see him every day, and told him over and over again it wasn't his fault, although she'd have had more reason than anyone to blame him…? He stretched out a hand to her, pleadingly.

"I didn't mean that, Hermione – I really didn't mean it. I'm sorry!"

She was staring at him, white-faced.

"I - I can't believe you said that." She had to swallow. "I can't believe you're taking _his_ side against _me_!"

"I'm not taking anybody's _side_, Hermione! And I'm sorry I said that. I really am." He tried to put a hand on her shoulder but she angrily shrugged him off.

"He's _Malfoy_!" She caught herself. "Every time I hear that self-important, stuck-up voice of his, I hear it say 'you filthy little Mudblood'." Her voice was shaking with repressed emotion. "He hasn't changed, Harry! Why do you think he has? Why do you believe him? His heart's still with the Death Eaters. He's only learnt to hide his sympathies better!"

"He's hiding them so well that even Dumbledore is deceived?"

"Maybe Dumbledore only wants him here to be able to keep an eye on him! Maybe he thinks Malfoy can be… saved, or redeemed, or something!"

"But _you_ don't, obviously?"

Hermione's face was still white. "Perhaps you're right," she said in a tight, hard voice that belied her words. "Perhaps I just hate him too much to be fair. If you'll excuse me, I don't think I'll go to the reception after all."

She turned on her heel and stalked off, chin held high. Harry stared helplessly after her, wondering what would happen if he and Malfoy… if they ever… He couldn't finish the thought, wouldn't finish it, afraid it would never come true if he articulated it. Perhaps _if they ever became friends_ was a neutral enough phrase not to jeopardize anything. Hermione was his closest and dearest friend, and he didn't want to lose her, but there was something so intriguing about Malfoy that he couldn't just let go, whatever way Hermione felt.

But what if she was right? Annoying as it was, he had to admit she usually had a point. What if Malfoy really was here to be under Dumbledore's supervision – because Dumbledore thought he'd do less damage here than anywhere else?

Harry sighed deeply, took a glass of champagne from a tray that was hovering near his elbow, and emptied it much too quickly. Malfoy had disappeared in the crowd, and Harry went back to his room in a defeated mood, wondering whether the Academy would really prove to be the success he had expected, on any level at all.

xxx

"Welcome, welcome, my dear Lucius."

Lord Voldemort was waiting on the other side of the hex-proof, sluice-like gates as the terrifying half-troll guards let Lucius Malfoy through.

"Thank you, my lord," said Lucius, glad to be there finally but unable to suppress a slight shiver of fear at the tone of voice. Few things were as unpleasant as Lord Voldemort's putative cordiality. "I'm honoured to be here."

"Precious few know about my laboratories," Voldemort said, "but you have always had my full confidence, as you know. And if we are to move some of my research units to your property…"

He left the sentence unfinished, and Lucius shivered again as they walked briskly along steel-bright corridors. Cold, white light fell through regularly spaced windows like narrow slits, floor-to-ceiling, letting in light but allowing no view. Their footsteps thudded dully on the polished, slate-grey floor. The occasional glimpse of the red satin lining of Lord Voldemort's robes was the only splash of colour in the stark environment.

The laboratories were built smoothly into a mountainside, following the profile of the mountain so well it was nearly impossible to tell it was there. Not that there were many people around to see it – it had been built in this craggy, forbidding and largely uninhabited part of northern Albania for a reason.

"We have some of the world's finest alchemists working here," Lord Voldemort said with smooth satisfaction.

"Are they here of their own free will?" Lucius blurted out and instantly bit his tongue.

But there was no retort from Lord Voldemort. He appeared only to have half-heard the question.

"What does it matter," he said absently.

They stopped at a heavy, steel-grey door at the end of the corridor. Lord Voldemort pulled out a small, green, gem-like stone attached to a chain around his neck, and held it up to face its counterpart fitted into the wall by the door. There was a surge of green light, and the door slid open noiselessly. Voldemort's eyes were awake again, awake and alight.

"Look around, Lucius! Enjoy the sight. You have to admit you've never seen anything like it before."

Lucius Malfoy looked around obediently as the door shut behind him. He had, indeed, never seen anything like it. It was like standing on the brink of the future and looking into another, unfathomable world, the world of tomorrow.

The room was enormous, tiled in bright white, sharply lit and gleaming. The entire ceiling seemed to radiate light; it seemed to be _made_ of light. Along the walls ran narrow worktops, fitted with steel sinks at regular intervals, and the floor space was divided into work areas that each seemed to be designated to a particular experiment or project. Some areas had enormous tiled tubs in the floor, where gigantic potions experiments seemed to be carried out, and some were equipped with complex instruments and machinery the use of which Lucius Malfoy couldn't begin to imagine. Other areas again had steel slabs for dissection. On the nearest slab, a tall, olive-skinned wizard with a hunch and very long, thin fingers was gloomily dissecting something that looked like human remains. Another shiver trickled down Lucius' spine.

"We will need to move some of this equipment to the Isle," Lord Voldemort was saying, wrinkling his nose a little at the unpleasant smell from the dissection area. "Nothing from the potions division, obviously, but I think some of the tissue experiments and similar research would be suitable for transfer. Ah, there he is." Voldemort picked his way across the enormous room. "Come, Lucius. I will let you speak to Zeke Smith – over there, in the green protective robes. He is in charge of the experiments on organisms."

They walked over to a tiled tub, where a tall, sallow-complexioned wizard was stirring a violently purple potion bath with a steel rod. His thick, dark eyebrows were drawn together above his nose in concentration, and he seemed less than pleased with the interruption.

"Zeke, this is Lucius Malfoy, who will be providing the space for our long-awaited mini-lab in England. I will leave you two to discuss logistics and practical arrangements." Lord Voldemort gave a small bow. "Gentlemen."

They bowed to him, and he left them and went over to a small group of wizards who were looking at a set of blueprints tacked to a large board on the wall, animatedly discussing some detail in the depicted construction.

Mr. Smith pulled off his stained dragonhide glove and proffered a claw-like hand.

"Delighted," he said with an expression that couldn't have contradicted the word more. "I have heard of you and I am sure we will be able to work out a solution. Shall we use one of the conference spaces for our little chat?"

xxx

Lectures, seminars and classes began, and the pace was set high from the start. Hermione was in her element, as was only to be expected, but even Harry found himself stimulated by the atmosphere of serious dedication and enjoying it more than finding it a pressure. His earlier, unusual experiences made some subjects easier for him than for most other students. He was well ahead of his peers in Occlumency, for instance, something that made Malfoy grit his teeth. On the other hand, Malfoy excelled at Advanced Charms, one of Harry's weaker subjects. Luckily, Harry had opted for Transfiguration rather than Potions. This meant that he didn't have to put up either with Snape, who had been transferred to the Academy from Hogwarts School, or with Malfoy's superior skills. Instead, Harry studied Advanced Charms intensely with Hermione, and was beginning to find it intriguing.

There were a number of entirely new subjects, too, such as Magical Tracing. MT quickly developed into Harry's favourite subject, partly because of the novelty of it but also because he found it genuinely interesting.

Now that he had his energy back, he took up physical exercise again. Running, boxing, fencing... It offered great stress relief and helped him focus better.

The one thing he really, deeply missed from Hogwarts School was Quidditch. The Academy would have been perfectly capable of finding enough good players to put together a competitive team, but current circumstances did not allow for much play. Wizarding universities were few and university Quidditch tournaments were bound to be an international affair, which called for a vast security apparatus even under ordinary circumstances. In the current political situation, Quidditch tournaments were simply out of the question.

Harry and other students occasionally went over to Hogwarts School to watch a House Cup match, and sometimes they practiced flying or played for fun at the Quidditch pitch when it happened to be free, but it wasn't the same, not the same at all. Harry missed the rush of adrenaline, the shouts and cheers from the audience, the wind whipping his face, and his own single-minded focus when he had spotted the Snitch. There was still nothing that could beat that, nothing in the world.

xxx

**_October,_****_ 1998_**

The MT classroom was so dark and quiet you could hear a breath and feel a movement in the air. They had started out with theory, but now they were in the middle of their first practical class. Two students had already had a go at detecting spells used. They had done quite well, and the air was thick with nervous anticipation. Harry felt warmth radiating from the bodies of the very still and attentive students on either side of him: Hermione to the left; Malfoy to the right.

"Your turn, Miss Granger!" Professor Sharpe's voice said somewhere in the dark. "Wand at the ready."

"Yes, sir," said Hermione tensely, and Harry could feel her straighten up.

"_Patefacio__ Rei recreo!"_

The room lit up with a flickering light and filled with the crackling, hissing noise of unravelling magic. The light went from faintly yellow to a clear red, with trails of something smoke-like swirling slowly at its centre, or source.

"This... this is not a spell or a charm," said Hermione nervously.

"Develop that statement, Miss Granger."

"The changing colour… and the swirls… indicate shape-shifting."

"Very good. Is it possible to tell what kind of shape-shifting has taken place? Could it be a Boggart? Is it a change from human to animal form, or vice versa? And in that case, is it even possible to see what animal?"

"It's not a Boggart – Boggart shape-shifting doesn't leave this kind of trace; it's vague and vapour-like without discernible colour." Hermione was beginning to sound more sure of herself. "The human form generally has stronger colours than animal forms, so this would be a transformation from animagus back to human. Research into detection of specific animal forms is ongoing."

"Very good," Professor Sharpe said again. "_Catena repeta!__ Proxime incantata!"_

The light shifted, and there was a shower of bright, yellow-white sparks spreading evenly from the centre, like a luminous ball of dandelion seeds.

Hermione hesitated, uncharacteristically. "I – I'm not quite sure."

Harry could hear how much she hated not being sure, and having to admit it. He wasn't used to outshining Hermione in anything academic, but in this particular subject he did. This was telepathic magic; he could tell instantly by the shape and pattern of the sparks. It was a revival spell. But it wasn't only that he remembered descriptions from the coursebooks – it was as though he could _feel_ the spells, an instinctive understanding of their nature and basic structure, their internal relation and order. Hermione didn't seem to have this instinct; she solved the problems through knowledge and memory, and although her mnemonic capacity was impressive, she lacked Harry's edge. Only one other student had an instinct that matched Harry's own: Draco Malfoy.

"The _shapes_ here are very characteristic," said Professor Sharpe pointedly, and it was all the prompting Hermione needed.

"Oh, of course!" Her words tripped eagerly over themselves. "The bright sparks, like tiny parachutes, are characteristic of telepathic magic. The colour tells us it's not a hostile spell, but one with positive energy, in the category of revival spells. "

During one of their study sessions, she had said to Harry she remembered things more easily if she could visualise them inside her head as _words_, as black text on a white page, as descriptions rather than images or abstract concepts. No wonder she always sounded like an encyclopedia.

"Correct. _Catena repeta!__ Proxime incantata!"_

Professor Sharpe was an experienced Auror, who, according to Dumbledore, had been both honoured and relieved to be offered a position at the Hogwarts Academy. He had worked in the field for many years and seen too much horror, and was glad of the chance to do something constructive and less stressful. Teaching and coaching young, enthusiastic students seemed to sooth his soul.

Magical Tracing was a relatively new field. The Aurors had used different primitive spell detection methods for many years, until the real breakthrough had come some ten years ago, when a research laboratory in Romania had cracked a core problem. New developments had avalanched from there. Now, it was not only possible to see what charms, hexes or spells had been cast, but also in what direction, in what order and if and how they had been affected by crossfire.

"Thank you, Miss Granger," said Professor Sharpe. "That will conclude the practical session for today."

Harry started. He hadn't heard a word of the last part of Hermione's analysis. Professor Sharpe opened the blinds, lit the chandeliers and turned to the students who were blinking like owls in the sudden light.

"When we first met, at the beginning of the term," he let his gaze sweep over them, "the curriculum only included two terms of this subject. But as Professor Dumbledore and I both consider it a fascinating and important one, we have included a week-long intensive module in the schedule. You've had some preliminary information about this earlier, and now the practical arrangements have finally been made. As darkness is a great help in spell detection, the intensive module will be held in Scandinavia."

Whispers and mumbling spread like a wave among the students.

"You will go two at a time," Professor Sharpe continued, raising his voice a little, "starting from the last week in October. There will be theory classes and practice sessions. I will be handing out the lists of times and pairs as you leave."

They filed out of the classroom past Professor Sharpe's desk, looking for their names on the lists he gave them.

"Seems we're going together, Potter," said a low voice in Harry's ear. "How interesting."

Harry's eyes had just found his own name on the list, and when he saw the name next to it, a small shiver ran down his spine. He was unsure whether it was mostly at the thought of spending a week entirely in Malfoy's company, or at Malfoy's warm breath on his ear and cheek.

"Late November," Malfoy was saying. "Doesn't get much darker than that, does it?"

"Scandinavia… Have you ever been there?"

Malfoy shook his head. "No, and never wanted to. All that snow and darkness…!"

Their eyes met. Malfoy's were focussed and intense, and Harry felt that little shiver again. A week with Malfoy…? It opened up almost frightening possibilities.

They hadn't spent much time in each other's company so far, and Harry had to admit to being disappointed that Malfoy hadn't yet made use of knowing where Harry's rooms were. On the other hand, Harry hadn't made use of his knowledge either. He just didn't know how to go about it. He went to other people's rooms all the time, for studying or partying or just chatting and having tea; he probably went to Hermione's rooms at least once a day. But with Malfoy, it was different. He couldn't simply go there and knock on the door.

"I wonder how we'll travel," Malfoy mused. "Apparate?"

"Probably too risky to let students Apparate that kind of distance. Portkey?"

"Actually, the more I think about it, the more I'm beginning to feel it's not a bad idea, going to Scandinavia." Malfoy grinned. "I'm better at MT than you are, Potter. That week will confirm it."

"_You_? Better than _me_? Excuse me if I laugh." Harry laughed heartily and marvelled at his own acting skills. "Prove it, Malfoy."

"I will."

The smile left Malfoy's eyes. The intensity didn't. Harry felt a shiver down his back for the third time.

xxx

**_November, 1998_**

"Zabini, wait!" Harry sprinted down the corridor towards Blaise Zabini's black-robed back. "How was it? Scandinavia, I mean. MT. What was it like?"

Zabini turned around, surprised at hearing Harry Potter call out to him. They had known each other, or at least known about each other's existence, for more than seven years, but they had barely exchanged ten words. The trend had survived their transition to the Academy.

"It was okay, I suppose," Zabini said with his usual, slightly haughty air. "A bit boring to spend a whole week in that horrible grey darkness, but I guess it was reasonably useful."

"Was it mostly theory or practice?"

"About fifty-fifty, I'd say. But," and Zabini looked Harry up and down, "you're really more of a practice man, aren't you?" And with that, he gave Harry a small, close-lipped smile with his mouth turned down at the corners, and walked off.

Harry felt like an idiot, standing there with a stack of books tucked under his arm and his mouth open, ready to ask the next question. He stared at Zabini's retreating back for a second, shrugged and turned back towards the library.

xxx

Harry had been looking forward to the MT week with equal parts curiosity and nervous anticipation. Now he'd finally get the answer to all his questions.

Sunday evening was dark and still, with a faint tang of frost in the air. After dinner, Harry met Malfoy in the Entrance Hall to catch the carriage to Hogsmeade. They barely talked during the fifteen minutes or so it took for them to reach the village, and Harry could tell that Malfoy, like himself, was a little nervous. His face didn't show anything – it rarely did, but his fingers were moving restlessly over his cloak, plucking at the hem, brushing off invisible dust.

They easily found the Portkey that was waiting for them at the station – a pointy old hat on the bench at the south end of platform 3. They looked at each other and took a deep breath, and Malfoy nodded.

"Now," he said, and they both reached for the hat.

The journey was as unpleasant as ever – Harry had almost forgotten how much he hated travelling by Portkey. Dizzy and nauseous, they landed on the snow-covered platform of a train station. Harry bumped his knee as they hit the ground, and Malfoy groaned something about his elbow. They got up, muttering and rubbing at sore spots, and looked around. They couldn't see much except for the lit platform and a small brick building that must be the station house, and they went inside, carrying their trunks. It was warmly lit but completely empty, as far as they could see. They looked at each other and shrugged, then crossed the waiting area, went out through the other door and stopped on the steps. There was a narrow street lined with buildings, lit by a row of street lights and a few neon signs and shop displays, but outside this little scene there was darkness, a strangely deceptive darkness. Deceptive because it was made to seem like dusk by the light reflected off the snow, but was still as impenetrable as any subterranean darkness.

The cold made everything sharp and jagged, brittle enough to be shattered by a breath. They looked at each other again, and Draco's left eyebrow went up. Harry opened his mouth to say something when they heard a cheerful voice behind them.

"Mr Malfoy? Mr Potter?"

They both jumped. They hadn't seen anyone inside the station building.

"Welcome to Långlien," the man said. "I'm Vebjörn Dal. Pleased to meet you."

He was perhaps thirty, tall, blond and healthy-looking with a wide smile. He held out his hand and they shook it in turn.

"And please don't call me _sir_, or Professor Dal – we're not that formal here. I'm Vebjörn."

Both boys repeated it, trying to get their pronounciation as closely to his as they could: "Veb-yern."

He grinned amiably at them. "Excellent. I hope you don't mind me calling you by first name, either."

They both shook their heads, politely wanting to adhere to local custom.

Harry was beginning to feel painfully cold even though they'd only been outside for a minute. Vebjörn saw them shiver in their thin wool cloaks. "There's warm clothing waiting for you up at the cabin. The cabin where you will be staying." He pointed. "Look. You can see the village. Up there, on the mountainside."

They followed the line from his finger and saw a small cluster of distant lights glitter through the blue darkness like a jewel on display.

"We were told it was small, but – there can't be more than... ten, fifteen buildings there," Malfoy said, an edge of panic in his voice.

"Twelve," Vebjörn confirmed, unperturbed.

"Where's the nearest town?"

"This is the nearest town."

"But – !"

"But what? Are you saying this is not a town?" Vebjörn was grinning. "Relax. We know how to look after ourselves up here, trust me. I assure you, you will have everything you need. Haven't the others told you they've been well cared for?"

Harry glanced at Malfoy and couldn't tell if the blush on the pale face came from anger or embarrassment, or if it was the cold that made his cheeks glow pink.

"How are we going to get there?" he asked Vebjörn.

"The Portkey is over here," Vebjörn said and went over to a wastepaper basket. It was lidded and crowned with a cap of snow. "We should leave straight away. You're cold. Are you ready? Okay, hold on now." He opened the lid and pulled a newspaper from the wastebasket.

Even colder, and nauseous from a second journey by Portkey, they landed in a small village square surrounded by low wood buildings. It was a relief to finally be there. As they brushed snow from their clothes, Vebjörn nodded towards one of buildings.

"That's your cabin there. Like I said, I think you'll find everything you need. But if there's a problem of any kind, I'm over there. Just knock on my door." He pointed to a building at the other side of the square.

"Is the village Muggle protected?" asked Harry.

"Yes. Protected by location spells, and Unplottable. So is Långlien, where the first Portkey took you. The nearest Muggle village is about a hundred and fifty miles from here." Vebjörn grinned at the look on their faces. "Go inside now and get warm. You'll find food and clothes and beds and a good fire. Sleep well, and I'll see you at nine tomorrow in the Hall – over there." He pointed again. "Good night!"

He set off across the square with a swift, powerful stride, snow creaking under his heavy boots. The boys were both stamping their feet against the cold. They looked at each other, and Malfoy shrugged. Harry felt something odd going on with his nose.

"Your nostrils freeze together when you breathe in!" he said, sounding like a little boy.

"Urgh, Potter." Malfoy's nose was unfrozen enough for him to wrinkle it.

"But they do!" Harry was laughing now. "Bet yours do, too. It's like there's glue..."

"Yeah, yeah, thanks so much for sharing that!" Malfoy gave him a shove. "Let's just get ourselves indoors."

xxx

The cabin was warm and welcoming, with woodfires blazing in each room. The beds looked comfortable enough, and the bathroom had a sauna. Neither of the boys had ever been in one, but Harry at least knew what it was and tried to explain it to Malfoy, who took a step back at the mere thought.

In their bedrooms they found scarves and mittens and heavy boots, and fur-lined, hooded cloaks of fine wool. Even Malfoy looked appreciative, and when he tried the cloak on, it suited him so well that Harry's breath caught in his throat. He turned away and coughed to hide it.

Hunger drove them into the kitchen to raid the fridge. As Malfoy opened the fridge door, food came dancing out and arranged itself into a slightly odd evening meal. They both laughed, astonished and amused.

They were too tired to talk much, and perhaps a bit shy, too. Harry found he was looking at anything, everything except Malfoy, though Malfoy was the only thing he _wanted_ to look at.

They finished their meal and went quietly to bed.

Harry lay awake listening to tiny, unfamiliar sounds and staring into the warm darkness that was fragrant with burning wood and hot resin. It was so strange, being here with Malfoy. He was glad they didn't have to share a room, at least – he wouldn't have been able to breathe.

Malfoy trying on that cloak… fur brushing his face…the underside of his chin…

No, he had to stop thinking about it. He just couldn't go on having shivering fits like that. Malfoy would be wearing that cloak for the entire week; Harry would just have to get used to it.

A week! Anything could happen in a week. It would be the perfect opportunity for them to… well, to what? Harry couldn't help wondering if it really was coincidence, that they were there together, or if it was part of some plan or other of Dumbledore's. A plan to get them together, to give them time to get to know each other, outside of the Academy…? Dumbledore always has hidden agendas. And he probably knew or at least guessed how Harry felt about Malfoy… Harry blushed uncomfortably at the thought.

_Dumbledore knows everything. He always does. Well, except for the flavours of Bertie Bott's beans. He always picks the worst ones._

Harry had to smile at this, but the smile died on his lips as he heard a small sound from the kitchen and realised that Malfoy was quietly moving around. He sighed deeply. He was so tired he could die, but it would be impossible to sleep with Malfoy wandering around like that. It made him want to get up and… well, what? He could pretend he needed something from the kitchen, perhaps…? Then he'd catch Malfoy there, very casually, and they could sit and talk… but he didn't know what he wanted to say. He would just like to sit there and _look_ at Malfoy.

It was strange that he hadn't been able to do that earlier. He wasn't usually that shy, but then everything to do with Malfoy seemed extraordinary. Harry wanted to stare and stare at him and never stop….

God, this way he'd never be able to sleep.

He got out of bed, pulled on a pair of thick socks and went to the kitchen. Something about the light and the smell of woodsmoke suddenly reminded him of Ron, of Christmas mornings with him in the Gryffindor common room when they were younger, when they opened presents dressed in their pyjamas and the latest version of the Weasley jumper... So familiar and safe and relaxed...

He was getting very skilled at shutting his mind down before the enormity of Ron's death hit him full blast. He did it now: he shut his mind just as pain was about to strike. It was like warding off blows; like boxing. You needed practice, but you did learn how to do it. This time it only touched him briefly.

Malfoy was standing by the kitchen table, looking out the window into the impenetrable darkness outside. The kitchen was dimly lit by the fire.

"Hey."

Malfoy turned his head a little but went back to staring into nothing. "Hey."

"Something wrong?"

Malfoy shrugged. "Not really. I just think this place is a bit... creepy. I've never liked being in the middle of nowhere. I'm not even sure exactly where we are. I haven't seen a map or anything."

"Hogwarts is sort of in the middle of nowhere, too."

"Yeah. But not like this. It's so fucking _dark_. You can't see a thing, so there's no sense of distance or direction or anything. I just get the feeling you could... you could die here and no one would ever know."

Harry looked in surprise at the tense, pyjama-clad back and took a step forward so he could see Malfoy's reflection in the dark window-pane. His arms were folded across his chest, in defiance or as protection.

"I get the feeling that this is some kind of... test." Malfoy turned around sharply and met Harry's eyes. "Is it?"

Harry shrugged, looked down and began to draw an invisible pattern on the table with a fingertip. "Not that I know of. We're here for special training, just like the other students either have been or will be."

He faltered as Malfoy's hard eyes refused to leave his face.

"Do you really believe it's a coincidence that you and I are here together? Or is it part of some plan or other of Dumbledore's? And who is Vebjörn really? Do we have a single reason to trust him?"

"You're seeing ghosts, Malfoy. Dumbledore sent us here. That's enough for me. At least I trust _him_ completely."

Malfoy made a sound somewhere in between a laugh and a contemptuous snort.

"Yeah. But it's not enough for me, Potter. Not for me. Dumbledore's getting old. He won't be strong forever."

"I know there were some rumours last year, but I didn't believe a word of them then and I still don't. I've seen no signs of him being either senile or weak." Harry looked intensely at Malfoy. "If I didn't know better, Malfoy, I'd say you're scared."

Malfoy didn't reply for a long while. "Not scared exactly, Potter. Let's just say I'm not comfortable."

"And that's why you can't sleep?"

"Yeah."

"I couldn't either."

"Why, if you trust Dumbledore?"

"I just couldn't. Sometimes I have trouble sleeping, especially in a new place. All those unfamiliar smells and sounds and... And then I heard you move out here."

"You heard me move. And you don't trust me." It was a statement.

Harry found nothing to say, and he asked himself whether it was true that he didn't trust Malfoy. It probably was. He wanted to trust him, but he still didn't, quite. The echo of Hermione's voice from the first day still rang in his head: _He hasn't changed, Harry! His heart is still with the Death Eaters._ But Malfoy had been accepted to the Academy, after all, and Dumbledore and Lupin and all the others who had made the decision must have had a good, solid reason for accepting him. He certainly seemed to take his studies very seriously. And he hadn't been home for his holidays for the past year and a half.

Malfoy was still looking intensely at Harry.

"What do I have to do to make you trust me, Potter?" he said in a low voice.

It took a second for the question to sink in, and then Harry blushed, partly with pleasure and partly with discomfort. He didn't know what to reply. He studied the earnest face with firelight playing over it, the look in the grey eyes. Malfoy folded his arms across his chest again, as if to shield himself.

"Do_ you_ trust _me_?" Harry finally said.

"Yes."

Harry had to stop his mouth falling open. The reply had come so quickly, so firmly, without a moment's hesitation.

"Yes, Potter, I trust you. Does it ever occur to you how transparent you are? You're so obvious there's no reason for me _not_ to trust you. The whole world knows what side you're on and where your loyalties are. And moreover, Potter, you don't have enough of an imagination to be deceptive."

Only Malfoy could deliver a compliment that was an insult. Or an insult that was a compliment. Harry didn't know which, but everything Malfoy said caused a reaction in him, and this time, he was instantly incensed. He felt his eyes flash and his hands balling into fists. Malfoy laughed.

"Sensitive, are we, Potter?"

He really couldn't let Malfoy get the better of him. Why was he making everything so damned difficult? Some things really didn't change. He relaxed his hands and took a step back, letting out an infuriated sigh.

"Malfoy," he said with deliberate calm. "Why are you always trying to piss me off? We have to share this cabin for a week, whether we want to or not. Could you just try to be civil, do you think, so this can be bearable for both of us? I'm trying, but you're already making it difficult for me."

Malfoy's face shifted, and his gaze wandered over to the fireplace. He was quiet for a long time before his eyes returned to Harry.

"I'm sorry," he said curtly.

Harry blinked. He wasn't sure he'd ever heard Malfoy apologise before, or make any concession at all. It sent a wave of warmth through him, and as he walked past Malfoy up to the kitchen counter, he put his hand briefly on the other boy's shoulder. He thought he felt Malfoy try not to wince.

"Okay," he said lightly. "Just as long as we know where we stand. I'm going to make a cup of tea. Want one?"

xxx

It was still dark when they went over to the Hall a few minutes to nine the next morning. Harry looked up at the sky and as he couldn't see a single star, he concluded it must be cloudy. Perhaps there would be more snow. The cold air had an unfamiliar, dangerous note to it – a smell, not sharp or distinctive, barely noticeable but definitely there. Perhaps it was the smell of darkness, or snow, or cold. Or all of those.

The Hall was warm and brightly lit, with honey-coloured wood flooring and high windows. They were greeted by Vebjörn, healthy-looking and annoyingly awake, grinning at them and asking if they'd slept well. They both said they had, avoiding looking at each other, both of them thinking that a white lie for politeness' sake wouldn't hurt.

"We'll have a theory lesson this morning," Vebjörn said, "and then you have the afternoon off. I suggest some exercise while it's still light. Do you ski?"

They both shook their heads.

"Well, find something to do. Go for a walk, or go tobogganing, or something. You need the daylight. You'll need to go to bed early, too. I'll wake you around midnight for some hands-on outdoor practice, when there's no artificial light at all, only the stars and the snow. The darkness – that's what you're here to use."

Harry threw a glance at Malfoy, who looked back, raising an eyebrow. If Vebjörn noticed it, he made no comment.

xxx

Just like Vebjörn had said, he woke the boys up at midnight. They dressed warmly according to his instructions and sleepily went outside. The sleepiness was instantly swept away by the night air. Neither of them had experienced cold like this before, or even thought it could exist.

"It's not that bad, honestly," Vebjörn said, grinning a little at their stunned faces. "It's -19; it could have been a lot worse. You've got warm clothes on and we'll keep moving. You won't die, I promise."

Harry couldn't understand how this could be classified as "not that bad". He'd never felt anything like it. It was so cold it was impossible to tell whether the sensation on his few bare square inches of skin was cold or heat – the air was _burning_ his face.

Malfoy seemed to be making the same discovery. He was gasping and groaning behind Harry as they trudged and plodded after Vebjörn along a small, winding path. The path seemed to have been cleared of snow time after time; snow was piled high on either side of it, as high as the boys were tall. The effect was slightly claustrophobic. All they could see was the shadow of a back in front of them between walls of snow.

After a few minutes' walk on creaking soles, with their breath like clouds around them, they entered a clearing.

Vebjörn turned around to smile at them. "Are you okay?"

They nodded, slightly out of breath from the icy air burning their lungs.

"Before we start, I'd just like you to look up at the sky for a few moments. Not part of the training – only for the beauty."

The boys obediently turned their faces towards the sky, both gently rubbing at their cheeks and noses with wool-clad hands.

Harry found himself gasping again. He saw why Vebjörn wanted them to look – he'd never seen anything like it. How was a night sky like this even possible? Vast and black, with a chalky grey-blue circle around the moon, and millions, millions of clear, sharp stars… Harry had never understood before just why the bridge of stars across the sky was called the Milky Way, but he saw it now. The name was too prosaic; it ought to be more poetic, more fantastic, to convey the diamond brightness of the unfathomable number of stars… but he did understand. He heard Malfoy breathe "oh" next to him, and turned his head.

Malfoy's face was turned upwards and what was visible of his pale skin shimmered blue in the moonlight, almost like the snow. His mouth was slightly open and a mitten-clad hand rested against his cheek, a childish gesture of awe. Out of the corner of his eye, he must have seen Harry looking. He turned his eyes away from the stars and met Harry's. They were standing so close together that their arms touched, and Harry had a nearly irresistible impulse to lean in and kiss the slightly parted lips.

Suddenly, jets of bright green light flared up in the sky. They moved and fluttered, changed shape and colour and intensity, blue, green, white, like curtains billowing in a breeze, moving over the sky. Both the boys and Vebjörn watched, wide-eyed, for the few seconds the show lasted. Then the light died down as suddenly as it had begun, and the sky was as quiet, black and brilliantly star-studded as before. They stood for a while staring at the blackness, not quite grasping what had happened, willing the fantastic, eerie light to come back.

Finally, Vebjörn turned his head and smiled at them. He must have sensed their reluctance to leave the breathless mood.

"It's an impressive sight, isn't it?" he said softly. "You certainly got good value for your efforts tonight. Moon, stars and northern lights! Sorry to break the atmosphere – but we have work to do. And we've got to keep moving; we'll be too cold if we stand still. Like I said, I've prepared a kind of obstacle course for you tonight, or rather it's a chain of events where you have to find and identify all the separate links – in the right order. One will take you to the next. It's really like a crime scene, and you two are Aurors who have just arrived at the scene. You have been called out on the field to find out what has happened to one of your colleagues who has mysteriously disappeared. So, your task is to find out what happened here, and report your findings, your results and your conclusions to me when you're done. You can use an autoquill to take notes. You've used one before, haven't you?" They both nodded. "Good. I'll be here if you need me, but you two will do the work."

"Where do we start?" Malfoy asked.

"That's the question, isn't it? A real problem for Aurors." Vebjörn grinned at them. "Well, there is some help. Your colleague managed to send a brief mental image to his Auror partner – an image that looks like this." Vebjörn waved his wand and a ghostly, pearly white image appeared in the darkness, like a photo negative, Harry thought. It showed something that looked like a high, pointed rock with some bushes next to it.

The image faded. They blinked and looked around, their eyes finding the rock but with only a heap of snow next to it. Vebjörn nodded approvingly, smiled at them and left them.

Harry glanced at Malfoy who gave a small shrug, and they set to work, efficiently and in surprising accord.

"_Patefacio__ Rei recreo!"_

A faint but warm, brownish red light began to flicker before them, sending out spike-like rays.

"It's a levitation spell."

"Yes – leading to… it's really strong, look at that ray… it points all the way over to the shrubs over there. They _are_ shrubs, aren't they? Hard to see with the snow…"

"Hey, wait, what's that? At the edge of the red, just there, like the edge of another spell or something…The blue thing there… Do you see it?"

"Yeah, I see it… Can we make it clearer?"

"_Claritas_"

They waited.

"_Augeo_"

"No, it doesn't work… let's make a note though. You activated the autoquill, didn't you?"

"It's right here. _Stilus__ autoscriptus!_ Blue showing at edge of auburn light, small crescent shape, fixed light, no sparks, clarifying or intensifying spells without effect, can't tell direction. – Is that enough?"

"It's all we have. _Finite autoscriptus!_ He was dumped here, I think – do you see that? And here's a… a what – a revival spell?"

Ten minutes into the "obstacle course", Harry found himself thinking, _if I could go on working like this with Malfoy, I'd really improve fast_.

He was surprised to find how smoothly they worked together, and how interesting it was to work with someone who was as intuitive as himself but had the mnemonic capacity of Hermione Granger. Their thought processes seemed to be similar and work in the same general direction, but still not quite – one of them always saw something the other hadn't, or saw it from a different perspective.

They moved on, and they simultaneously spotted a black shadow on the snow, a small, huddled animal shape.

"What is that?" Malfoy sounded almost frightened.

Harry cautiously poked at it with a finger, turned it over in the snow.

"It's a… it's a squirrel. It's dead." Harry's voice, too, held a slight note of apprehension. He poked again. "Look. Stiff as a board."

"Stop _touching_ it, Potter! – No wonder it's stiff as a board in this cold. I'd be worried if it wasn't."

They stared at it for a while, feeling sorry for the poor little thing with frost crystals in its fur, and then began to examine the surroundings for spells.

"I think it must have died of shock, or something," Malfoy finally said. "I can't find any spells."

"Me neither. It must be a red herring."

"A very _dead_ herring."

"And really weird-looking, to be a herring. Where are the fins?"

"Perhaps it was a fin-removal spell."

Their intense concentration dissolved into giggles, their breath transforming into clouds in the icy air.

"I wonder what colour a fin-removal spell is?"

"Pale green."

"No, that's the gills one."

It felt good to laugh and thaw their facial muscles a bit. Vebjörn came towards them with a curious smile on his face, and they straightened up and tried to be serious.

"How are you doing? You're having fun, apparently?"

"Sorry, sir. We got stuck for a bit," Malfoy said.

"Less of that 'sir' thing, Draco! Where did you get stuck? Or rather what got you stuck?"

"We found… this." They gestured vaguely at the dead squirrel. "And we couldn't make out whether it was part of the crime scene or not. We haven't been able to find any spells, so we think it probably isn't."

Vebjörn nodded approvingly. "Good work. It's always a problem, judging what is relevant for your investigation and what isn't. You're right, this poor little creature is nothing to do with your task tonight." He grinned at them. "Get on with it, then. It's a bit chilly out here, in case you haven't noticed."

He wandered off again, and the boys went back to their task, working quietly but intently side by side. And while they worked, Harry kept glancing at Malfoy's moonlit face, the dark smudges of his eyes, the shadowed mouth… He found it made him far too unfocussed.

_Stop it_, he told himself. _Concentrate on your work._

But he still wondered, like he had when they were watching the aurora borealis, what it would be like to kiss Malfoy, to kiss those soft, cold lips.

xxx

Their week in the dark and cold was filled with hard work, but Draco found he enjoyed it. It was both annoying and motivating to be on a level with Potter – they egged each other on. It was interesting, too, to see how well they actually could work together and how they seemed to complement each other.

But they didn't only study. There were other things to try out, too – like skiing. Thursday morning arrived with brilliant sunshine, and Vebjörn offered to take the boys out and instruct them, leaving the MT theory lesson for the afternoon darkness.

Draco had never tried skiing before and wasn't sure he'd ever like to. But Potter was enthusiastic at the suggestion, and after Draco had thought for a minute, he agreed to go.

Now they were here, in the snow and blazing sunshine with skis like unfamiliar weights on their feet, and Draco wondered why he'd let himself be talked into this. The only consolation was that Potter had never done any skiing, either. Or perhaps that really was no consolation. What if he proved to be Wonderboy again, just as he had with flying?

Draco was more and more convinced that this wasn't going to be a good day. His feet felt steeped in concrete, and he couldn't control them. When he tried to move, they slid away from under him in all kinds of impossible directions.

They climbed up a little hill, slowly and painstakingly, and when they finally reached the top their arms were trembling. Vebjörn grinned at them as he leant on his poles.

"We'll practice on this little slope for a bit first," he said, "before we try anything steeper. Okay, guys. You have to balance your body weight..."

He had barely begun his instructions when Draco lost control over his feet again. They took him for a short but quick ride down the hill, wind biting his face, skis making a swishing sound in the snow. A very short ride. The world turned a somersault and a cloud of snow glittered around him, and for a moment he had no idea was up and what was down. He landed with a thud. When his vision cleared, everything was white and blue and criss-crossed with skis and poles, and he was spitting snow. Somewhere above him he heard Vebjörn's laugh ring through the silence, and then another laugh, slightly muffled by clothing. Potter.

_If he turns out to be a good skier, I'll kill him. I swear I will._

But he wasn't - at least, not yet. Potter managed to get halfway down the slope, tried to make a turn and fell over in a spectacular way, poles flying. Then he was on his back in the snow, laughing like a maniac. Vebjörn shouted something at them and made a perfectly controlled S-shaped sweep down the slope, coming to an elegant halt about a foot from Potter, who was still giggling like mad, his black hair dusted with snow. Draco couldn't stop his own grin. _Potter, you geek._

"Okay, get up! Get out of the snow – you mustn't get cold. Go back up there and give it another try. You were doing fine, Harry, excellent, until you leant too far back when you tried to make that turn. You have to keep your body weight balanced. Now, your mountain ski..."

Draco let himself fall back in the snow, looked up at the dazzlingly blue sky and let Vebjörn's words brush past him and disappear like the clouds of their breath. He knew that skiing would never come to him the way flying had.

xxx

Nor would ice skating, he thought late next afternoon as he sat in front of the kitchen fire, pulling off thick wet socks. Skating was easier than skiing, though, and being out on the frozen lake in golden winter sunshine, feeling the sharp steel under your feet cut through the feather-light, untouched snow that covered the ice – that was brilliant. But that burning pain in his ankles, and the unbelievably icy wind stinging his face…! He had lost count of the times he'd fallen over; he was bruised everywhere and his muscles were aching. He grimaced and straightened up, fists pressed into his back.

_Ouch. I really do ache all over. And I wonder if I'll ever get warm again._

"Your turn in the shower, Malfoy." Potter stuck his head around the bathroom door. "The sauna is hot now. You joining me?"

Draco groaned. "Sauna? You're not serious, are you? Why would you want to be in a claustrophobic room where you sweat and can't breathe properly?"

"Come on, Malfoy. Vebjörn says going into the sauna is the best thing you can do when your muscles ache. Soothing and relaxing and all that. Well, do what you want then, Malfoy. I'm going in now."

"Good luck with the Scandinavian madness, Potter. If I haven't seen you or heard you make a sound in half an hour I'll check on you. To see if I can revive you from that cardiac arrest."

The annoying Potter grin disappeared into the sauna. Draco shook his head and limped into the shower. Of course he would go into the sauna. He just didn't want to admit he was going to take someone's advice.

He stayed in the shower much longer than usual, closing his eyes and letting the hot water spray over him, trying to ignore that irritating, gnawing sensation he always had in his stomach where Potter was concerned. Nervous about going into the sauna. How ridiculous could it get?

He wasn't shy or self-conscious. It wasn't that he felt awkward about being naked. He had spent seven years at a boarding school, after all. He played Quidditch. He was used to taking showers with other boys, seeing them in all states of undress, wrestling or running around the locker rooms trying to swat each other with wet towels twisted into ropes. It had never bothered him; it hadn't been a big deal. It was just normal.

_A brief flash of memory: Lord Voldemort's eyes licking his naked back like flames. A poison-cold finger touching his tailbone..._

He shuddered violently and turned the heat up.

No. It was the fact that this was Potter. This was Potter, and they were alone.

Should he go into the sauna naked? Was that what you did? Or should he wear a towel? He hated silly problems. He frowned and quickly decided on the coward approach. Towel.

He gasped at the dense wall of heat that met him when he entered the little room. Potter was stretched out on his back on the top bench, one towel spread under him like a beach towel and one around his hips. Draco near-smiled. So they had both chosen the coward approach. Did this mean Potter felt awkward, too? Or was it just the Gryffindor way? He could imagine them being prudes. Undressing stealthily in the dark.

Well, Potter certainly had nothing to be ashamed of. Draco tried to look without being obvious as he climbed up to sit at the end of the bench by Potter's feet. He realised that even if he had seen the Slytherin boys naked a thousand times, he had never seen Potter without clothes. Nice chest, strong shoulders, well-developed muscles on his thighs... _Draco, stop._ He rested his elbows on his knees, looked down at his feet and was glad his face was already glowing from the humid heat.

"So you decided to risk that cardiac arrest?"

"I'm a Malfoy. We don't die from trivial things like heat stroke."

He leant against the wall, wincing as his back met hot pinewood. As he closed his eyes he felt heat surround him like an embrace, hold him and relax his muscles. He had to admit that these Scandinavians knew what they were doing. Well, at least some of the time. He opened his eyes again as he heard a groan of pleasure from Potter, echoing his own sensation.

"Mmmhh. This really _is_ good." Potter stretched luxuriously and wiped a hand across his face where bright pearls of sweat and water had formed. "This is _so_ fucking good."

Draco swallowed and tried not to imagine Potter saying that, exactly _that_, in response to… something else. Potter sat up and leant against the wall, replicating Draco's position. He stretched out his legs and grimaced.

"I don't think my feet have ached this much in my life."

Draco laughed.

"I know what you mean. Feet, calves, ankles... But it's easier than skiing. Much as I hate to admit it, Potter, you were pretty good on skis. I'll never learn to do it properly."

"You will," Potter said, surprisingly. "Vebjörn says you're graceful – you'll get the coordination sorted out. He's right, you know. I can see what he means. You _are_ graceful." Potter looked down at his hands, looking embarrassed suddenly. Awkward. He hurried to continue, "I've always thought... well, perhaps not always, but from our sixth year or so... that you move... like a cat."

It wasn't the first time Draco had heard this. People apparently thought of him as feline, which he resented, as he had always regarded cats and felinity as feminine and deceptive. But he had never expected to hear it from Potter, and he was disturbed by the fact that he was almost pleased. Perhaps pleased to know that Potter had studied him that closely, and for so long. Somehow it was a very personal thing to say, by far the most personal comment Potter had ever made about him. And it was obvious from Potter's discomfort that he thought so, too. Draco had to smile a little.

"Like a cat? You mean I always land on my feet?"

Potter glanced up at him, disconcerted for a moment. But then he grinned, that slightly lopsided, annoyingly disarming grin.

"Judging from the past few days, Malfoy, I'd say you usually land on your arse."

Draco surprised himself by laughing. He seemed to have surprised Potter, too; the grin broadened.

And then there was something else underneath their smiles, an earnestness and a prolonged silence that held something neither of them could have described.

Draco looked into Potter's eyes, unshielded and unobscured by glasses, looked at the glowing face and the glistening drops of water, at the black hair pushed back from the forehead and curling damply, revealing the scar. Looked at the curve of his neck; where neck joined shoulder... And at the green eyes again.

They had a question in them now, a puzzled look that made Draco want to catch his breath. He looked at Potter's face and wondered what Potter saw in his.

He wasn't sure what made him do it, but he lifted his hand and touched the scar. Potter's eyes widened but he didn't move. His skin was wet and smooth under Draco's hand.

"Does it hurt...?" Draco asked quietly.

He traced the scar with his fingertip and Potter drew an unsteady breath.

"No," he whispered. "Not now. Only when... when _he_ is there."

Draco's fingertip slowly traced the scar again, and then a third time, as he tried to analyse his feelings. They were new to him. He'd never wanted to pull someone to him and hug them tightly, to hold them and protect them, although he didn't know against what. It was so intense… too intense. It hurt.

They were still looking into each other's eyes. Potter's were worried now, and Draco wondered again what he saw.

His fingertip traced Potter's eyebrow and then slid lightly down his cheek, slowly drawing a path through drops of moisture. Potter was still like a statue, his hands in his lap and his eyes very wide.

Draco pulled away and let his hand fall down on his knee. He lowered his eyes. Somehow he didn't dare look at Potter any longer.

"I can't breathe in here," Potter murmured and scrambled down from the bench. The door closed behind him in a sigh of cool air.

Draco stared after him for a second and then leant back against the wall as he heard the sudden hiss of the shower. He closed his eyes and let his hands fall heavily onto the pinewood bench on either side of him. His palms stung with heat.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck! I've made a complete bloody idiot of myself. I'll bet he hates me now. How the hell am I ever going to face him again?What the hell am I going to say?_

He covered his face with his hands and stayed in that position until he heard the shower switch off and the door to the bathroom close.

xxx

Harry was shaking as he got out of the sauna. His hand trembled when he turned the shower on and bit back a yelp as cool water hit his burning skin. He stood under the flow of water with his eyes closed and face turned up, wanting to wash away the tingling of his scar as he imagined Malfoy's finger tracing it again and again...

It had just been too much. Sitting there, being touched... his _scar _being touched. Hardly anyone had ever done that, and it was as if his scar, contrary to scar tissue in general, was more sensitive to touch than the rest of his skin. Sitting there looking at Malfoy's flushed face, his lips so close... Sitting there looking into those beautiful grey eyes that held something that could only be described as... no, it couldn't be described.

Harry swore softly, soaped himself in quick, jerky movements and rubbed shampoo ungently into his hair and scalp. He inhaled the sweet-fresh fragrance and tried to make his arousal die down; tried not to think about flushed white skin or soft mouth or that hand touching him again and again.

_Why did you do it, Malfoy? Fuck you. Fuck you for making me feel like an idiot. For making me feel like this._

Back in his room, Harry pulled on jeans and a jumper and heard Malfoy turn the shower on. He sat down on his bed with his head lowered, elbows on his thighs and hands hanging between his knees. Why was he making such a big deal out of this? Malfoy had touched him. Fine. They had been sitting very close, they had actually been laughing together, they had only had towels on. They had been glowing hot and dripping with sweat and moisture. It was a situation that called for intimacy. And Malfoy had touched him. It didn't mean a thing.

_But__ it did for me! He was so close, and… and…but to him it only meant he got to touch Harry Potter's famous scar. He's probably wanted to do that since we were eleven. He didn't touch** me**. He touched legend. He touched myth. He touched someone who doesn't exist._

He stood up abruptly and kicked the leg of the bed so viciously he nearly cried out from the pain.

xxx

Draco went through the kitchen to his room, still with only a towel on. He brushed past Potter, who came out from his room, dressed and with wet hair dancing around his face. Avoiding his eyes. Draco shut his door harder than necessary, pulled the towel from his hips and started rubbing at his hair.

Anger blazed through him and pulsed through his veins in hot, rhythmical shocks. He knew it was embarrassment; he knew that the whole thing wasn't Potter's fault but his own. That didn't make him less angry. He dressed quickly, couldn't find his hairbrush, irritably pushed his fingers through his hair and met his own dangerously blazing eyes in the mirror. His eyebrows were drawn together and his skin was still flushed from the sauna.

_Okay, so I don't look bad. All the more fool him for not wanting me._

It occurred to him that he could stay in his room and not leave it until the next morning, skip breakfast and not have to meet Potter until they were in the Study Hall with Vebjörn present. That way they wouldn't have to be alone. But the need to see how Potter would act with him was stronger than this cowardly impulse.

He went back to the kitchen.

Potter was sitting at the kitchen table with his textbook on Magical Tracing, parchment and ink next to him. The quill in his hand was poised over the parchment, but his eyes were turned to the dark window.

"How can people live here?" he said quietly. "It's dark all the time. Your internal clock would be shot to pieces."

_Oh, so that's how it's to be._

Relief and disappointment washed through Draco as he sat down opposite Potter. Neutral. Conversational.

"Mine's shot to pieces already," he said. "Especially with all this waking up in the middle of the night to go tracing."

"I like it though," Potter said. "Not the dark, and not having to wake up in the middle of the night, but the actual tracing. I enjoy it."

"You're good at it."

"So are you."

Draco looked at Potter's hand holding the quill. He had powerful hands, not big but strong and sinewy with square fingertips. His face was calm and a little sad as he looked at the impenetrable darkness outside. His hair was drying and curling softly around his face, and Draco wanted to reach out and touch him again, touch his hair and find out if it was as silky as it looked. Potter suddenly turned his head and looked straight at him. Draco caught his breath.

"Draco."

"Yes?"

Potter was looking at him very steadily and very directly, and there was a determined look on his face. He seemed to have come to a conclusion about something he had pondered on.

"I just wanted to say..." He put his quill down as if it was distracting him. "You know you said the other night that I don't I trust you. That's not true. I do."

It wasn't what Draco had expected, but somehow it was the most perfect thing Potter could have said. The choking feeling was there again, the constricted throat, the same feeling he had had in the sauna when he wanted to pull Potter close and hold him.

Neither of them said anything. They just looked at each other for a moment before Potter looked down into his book, turned a page and dipped his quill in the ink bottle. Draco quietly went to get his own book. His heart was beating so loudly he was sure the sound reverberated in the room.

xxx

Two young men were sitting opposite each other with their heads bent over books and their elbows on the table. Now and again they turned pages or one of them made a note. Light fell from the paraffin lamp above their heads, the smooth blond one and the messy black one. They didn't speak. The only sounds heard in the room were their breathing, the occasional scratch of a quill and the soft thud and crackle when a log fell in the fireplace.

They sat there in silence for about an hour. Then the dark boy put down his quill, closed his book and stretched. He went to the bathroom to clean his teeth, said goodnight and went to bed. The fair-haired boy sat on for a while, staring into darkness. Then he too went to bed.

Neither of them remembered a single word of what he'd been reading.

xxx

Harry woke up to darkness, as always, but the sleepy heaviness in his body told him it was too early to be morning. He also knew that something had woken him. A thud. And there it was again, repeatedly, like something soft and heavy against the window. The kitchen window.

He scrambled out of bed, quickly pulled on a pair of socks and padded out into the kitchen. The door to Malfoy's room opened the same moment. Malfoy's hair was ruffled and his left cheek pillow-creased, but his eyes were sharp and awake.

"What was that?"

"I don't know," said Harry, but then he heard a sound he would have known anywhere. "Hedwig!"

She was there like a ghost outside the window. Harry fumbled the door open and caught her.

"Hedwig! What's the matter? Is something wrong?"

She perched on his arm and stared innocently at him with round yellow eyes. She didn't look upset or even tired, but rather as if she would have purred if she could.

"Hedwig...? Don't you have a message for me?"

He looked at her, checked her feet and under her wings, but there was nothing, not even the smallest note. She just blinked contentedly up at him. He heard Malfoy laugh softly.

"You know, I think she just missed you."

Harry stared at Hedwig. She made an affectionate little noise as if confirming Malfoy's theory. When Harry stroked her feathers, she turned her head and pushed her beak against his palm.

"Silly bird," he said, pleased and half-embarrassed. "I've missed you too."

He carried her into his room where she settled happily. When he returned to the kitchen, the sharp look in Malfoy's eyes had gone and he seemed amused.

"Have you no control over your animal, Potter?"

Harry blushed and hated himself for it, and laughed to cover up his discomfort. "Sorry she woke you."

The image of Malfoy seemed to burn his eyes. Harry thought he had never seen him so beautiful. Or so – if it hadn't been too ridiculous – so sexy. Oh, it _was_ ridiculous. Malfoy was dressed in slightly rumpled blue pyjamas, he had pillow-crease imprints on his cheek and his face was still a little flushed from sleep. He had pushed his fingers through his hair but it was still ruffled. Why did this sleepy image seem even more gorgeous to Harry than the near-naked Malfoy in the sauna?

"Don't worry," Malfoy was saying. "Like I said, my internal clock is shot to pieces anyway. I could do with a cup of tea. Don't they have house elves in this backward country? Want some tea, Potter?"

"Yeah, why not. I'm wide awake anyway. Silly bird."

"She's nice," Malfoy said with his back turned as he dug for the tea tin in the cupboard. "And this is her natural environment, after all."

"I didn't think of that," Harry said, feeling ridiculous.

"You've had her ever since we started at Hogwarts, haven't you?"

"Yeah. Hagrid got her for me, for my birthday when I turned eleven. – Use _Accio_ if you can't find the tea, Malfoy."

"Gah. ... _Accio_ tea tin."

The tin came flying out of the cupboard and very nearly missed Malfoy's hand, but he saved it with the tips of his Seeker's fingers. He muttered "stupid…" under his breath, and Harry grinned. Malfoy's turn to feel ridiculous – it was only fair.

"You know, I was almost a little scared of Hedwig at first," he offered as an apology for grinning.

"Were you?" Malfoy gave him an amused glance. "Why?"

"Well." Harry took a deep breath. "I grew up with Muggles, as you know, and Muggles don't have owls as pets. I don't think I'd ever seen a real, live owl before, and suddenly I was the owner of one. It was very strange. But then, everything was new and strange to me. I didn't know anything at all about the Wizarding world."

Hedwig had only been one of all the surprising, amazing things happening. There had been so much to learn and get used to; so many things that people like Malfoy took for granted because they had known them since they were born._ Like Ron did. He helped me so much, with everything. _Harry couldn't believe he was telling Malfoy about Hedwig. _Ron wouldn't have believed it, either._

Malfoy turned around and handed Harry a steaming mug. Their fingers brushed as he took it, and their eyes met.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

The atmosphere was suddenly charged. Harry set his mug down on the table and looked at Malfoy's face in the firelight, at the shadows playing over his throat and hair. His eyes looked huge.

"Malfoy."

"Yes?"

"Do you dislike me?"

Malfoy started and quickly put his mug down as if to stop the liquid from betraying the sudden tremor of his hand. The grey eyes returned to Harry's face, firelight flickering in them.

"That's a weird question, Potter. I don't know. I don't really know you."

"That's an even weirder answer. We've known each other since we were eleven."

They stared at each other before Malfoy countered:

"Do _you_ dislike _me_?"

"I..." Harry had a big lump in his throat. It made speaking difficult, and he thought it wouldn't go away until he could touch Malfoy, touch his face, run gentle fingers through the blond hair. "I don't... know. I thought I did. But now... no, I don't think I do."

Malfoy's eyes looked radiant in the firelight and he seemed to be waiting for something.

_Can I touch him? He touched me earlier. Does that mean I can touch him the same way, and he won't back away...?_

Harry's heart beat in his throat and pounded in his ears as he took a step closer and reached out a hand. This took more courage than fighting Voldemort. Or perhaps just a different kind. His fingertips met Malfoy's hair, so silkily soft it was like a breath. He touched Malfoy's cheekbone and gently let his palm cradle the cheek. His heart nearly stopped as Malfoy closed his eyes and leant into the touch. It was only a minute movement, but Harry felt it.

Harry was trembling now. He moved closer, so close he had to move his feet sideways not to step on Malfoy's. He still held Malfoy's face as he lifted his other hand to touch Malfoy's lips. He couldn't believe it when the tip of Malfoy's tongue came out to meet the pad of his index finger. Heat uncurled in his stomach and spiralled downward.

As if he'd had an answer to his unspoken question, he removed his fingers from Malfoy's mouth and kissed him, very gently. It was only lips brushing against lips first, gliding tentatively, as if they had to get used to the fantastic feeling of warm touch and warm breath. Then a firmer touch, more pressure, soft sucking on a lip… When tips of tongues met, Malfoy's hands at the small of Harry's back told him that the kiss was neither a surprise nor unwelcome.


	7. Snowblindness

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: As always, thanks and love to my beta readers, **Plumeria**, **Naadi**** Moonfeather**, and **Darklites** for their invaluable help!

Author: Penguin

OF SNOW AND DARK WATER

"The sympathetic connexion supposed to exist between a man and the weapon which has wounded him is probably founded on the notion that the blood on the weapon continues to feel with the blood in his body."  
_Sir James Frazer, The Golden Bough_

CHAPTER 6 – Snowblindness

Harry didn't know whether he woke up from Hedwig's impatient let-me-out noises or from the unfamiliar weight across his chest. It took him a split second to realise the weight was Draco Malfoy's sleepy arm. His heart turned a somersault.

Draco…!

It had happened. It was happening.

Harry smiled and tried to slip out of bed without waking Draco, but Draco was already moving, and he mumbled something as Harry opened the window and watched Hedwig disappear into the cold darkness.

"What?"

"Come back to bed."

What a fantastic thing to hear. What an _incredible _thing to hear, particularly from Draco Malfoy.

Harry's heart was getting a lot of exercise this morning – now it skipped a beat and then started pounding. He quickly banged the window shut, hurried back to bed and slid in under the thick duvet. He found himself encircled again by warm, sinewy arms and pulled tightly against Draco's chest.

It was all a bit too much – slight overload. He was confused and unsure what to think or how to feel, or what was okay to feel. He was happier than he thought he'd ever been, and about equal parts scared and excited. Insecurity raged, but at least his body seemed to know what it wanted.

So did Draco's, very obviously.

Harry decided to go down the path of least resistance. Doubt and anxiety would probably come, but would simply have to come as an afterthought. He smiled a little at this convoluted logic and resigned himself to Draco's embrace.

He let his eyes fall shut as he felt Draco's mouth begin to move down his neck, gasps followed by an undignified whimper as it moved further down to do wonderful things with one of his nipples. Draco's hand was cupping itself around Harry's balls, and Harry slid his fingers into Draco's hair and moaned helplessly. He knew he wouldn't last long this time, either.

It hadn't been perfect last night, and yet it had. There had been so much tension to relieve, pent-up emotions and expectations, and they had both been very nervous. It had been intense, feverish and desperate, and over much too quickly. But god, it had been perfect – it had been all they'd wanted and needed just then. They'd both known it didn't matter if it was too quick or too tense or too anything else – this was only the beginning; they'd be doing this again and again in a thousand different ways.

Like now.

And Harry stopped thinking. He felt Draco's body, hands, mouth doing warm wet circling moving fantastic things to him; he listened to breaths and gasps and moans from both of them until the darkness under his eyelids abruptly exploded into fireworks and he came in pulsing spurts over Draco's hand and his own stomach.

xxx

Draco was almost dozing off again with his nose against Harry's neck. He really liked the way Harry's skin smelled, he thought sleepily. It didn't smell of anything in particular, except maybe a little of woodsmoke, but perhaps that was the air in the room. It just smelled like skin, warm and alive with blood pulsing underneath. Draco angled his head a little so his lips touched Harry's neck, and he let the tip of his tongue sneak out and caress a point just where neck joined shoulder. The reaction was immediate – a hitching gasp from Harry, an arm tightening around him, and Draco smiled, pleased that such a small action had such a noticeable effect. He sighed with contentment. His body was heavy and relaxed, Harry's fingertips were drawing tiny circles on his shoulder, and under Draco's arm, Harry's chest moved with every breath. They were acutely aware of each other's smallest move and smallest sound, both responding instantly.

It was fantastic, Draco thought, to be so close physically, but he kept worrying, too; kept wondering what Harry was thinking and feeling. They hadn't talked much after that first kiss, only shared the bare minimum of essential verbal communication. They'd had other things to do, things that were more immediately pressing. Now that they were sated and Draco had stopped aching physically for Harry for at least the next few minutes, he ached to talk to him instead, wanted it nearly as much as he wanted the physical pleasure. He was thrown by the level of his own anxiety, this silent, inward fretting – had Harry enjoyed what they had just done as much as Draco had? Was he disappointed? Was he satisfied, was he pleased, was he… happy?

Draco was wary of the words 'happy' and 'happiness', and a little contemptuous, too. He could still hear the echo of his father's voice in his head: "I'm not happy with you, Draco. I had expected more of you." When Lucius Malfoy was not happy with something, there could and would be unpleasant consequences. There was another kind of happiness, too, the female, cloying, clinging kind, the one that hung around necks and pleaded and sighed. Who wanted to be happy that way? What was that kind of happiness worth?

But this… this defied description.

Harry was stirring, moving out of Draco's arms, and Draco felt an instant, undignified twinge of fear: _Is he uncomfortable? Is he not pleased with me? Is he leaving?_

But Harry only changed positions. He propped himself up on his elbow and looked down into Draco's face, and Draco lay still on the pillow and looked up into eyes that were so dark he couldn't see their colour. They glinted, and as Harry moved a little they caught and reflected the firelight. Harry ran a fingertip along Draco's hairline and down his cheek, over his neck, followed the collarbone to the shoulder… he bent down and kissed Draco's chest, a series of soft slow kisses that were more tender than aiming to arouse. Draco closed his eyes and gently pushed his fingers into Harry's messy, silky hair, and thought that perhaps it was possible, after all, that Harry felt the same way he did about the situation.

Harry's mouth began to move very softly down Draco's stomach; his hand was on Draco's hip... It was all beginning to feel really spectacularly good, but just as Draco was getting hard again, Harry mumbled against Draco's hipbone, "What's this?"

Draco tensed mid-moan and raised his head to be able to look at Harry. "What's what?"

"It's hard to see in this light… but what's the small tattoo thing you have here? A flower? A water lily…?"

"Oh… yes." Draco let his head fall back against the pillow, his fingers playing in Harry's hair. "Yes, it's a water lily. Family tradition." He fell silent again, not really wanting to think about his family right now when everything was so good. But Harry was still and seemed to be waiting for him to continue. "Do you really want to hear about this now?"

"Yes, why not?" Harry's lips softly caressed Draco's hipbone again and made Draco shiver and sigh with pleasure and a tinge of disappointment at the interruption.

"Well… the Malfoy family crest has water lilies in it, and my great great grandfather was interested in exotic plants. It was the fashion back then, apparently. So he built a lily house at Malfoy Manor, a greenhouse for tropical plants, and started collecting water lilies. Each male heir of the Manor has had his own unique variety of water lily, that sort of symbolises him – he uses it on his personal seal, and he has it tattooed on his body."

"Like a cattle brand!"

Draco began to laugh and then stopped and shivered – Harry's careless assessment was far too accurate for comfort. But when Harry gently kissed the tattoo again and slowly caressed it with his tongue, Draco stopped thinking about his family, stopped thinking about anything at all except the marvel of touch.

xxx

Cross country skiing was so much easier than trying to go steeply downhill. It _worked_, even after only a few hours of practice. Draco listened to the crisp, swishing noises of his skis and poles in the snow.

_I don't want to go back. I don't want to pack my things tomorrow. I want to stay here – with him._

It was hard work, too – he was getting sweaty. He stopped and looked around.

White and blue. Deep blue mountains, mostly covered with blue-white snow. The sky overhead was a bright, clear blue, getting paler and gradually changing into turquoise and yellow at the horizon. No trees. Nothing to rest his eyes on, except a few dark areas on the mountainsides where the bare rock was visible.

It was the weirdest place Draco had ever visited. The sameness of the colours – white, blue, blue, white… and then the contrasts: the contrast between the fierce, insane cold outside and the blazing, fragrant wood fires indoors, between the inky black darkness of the long nights and the sharp light of the short daytime hours. Light so bright it gave him a headache before it turned a warm reddish gold and dissolved into blue dusk and darkness again.

Crisp, feather-light snow and warm, wet kisses.

The way the night sky had flared up as they watched, flames and jets of white and blue and green swaying and fluttering all over the sky, like luminous clouds of breath from some gigantic, mythical creature.

Strange and beautiful, and a little frightening. Like Draco's own feelings.

Draco shook himself and began to ski straight out into the untouched whiteness. He didn't really believe he'd get anywhere even if he kept going. This was a place where you could go straight ahead for hours and not get anywhere at all. Everything looked the same. He was surrounded by a white and blue nothing.

Frightening. Beautiful.

_Distance.__ I want distance. And balance – please, please let me regain my balance. I need some distance between myself and all this. It's wonderful, but it scares me._

His eyes swept over the expanse of white, both soft and hard. Contrasts again, and sameness. Clean, cold emptiness.

He continued to go towards the centre of nothing, hoping to find a core of… something, of substance and meaning. Maybe he'd find it when he'd passed through the nothingness.

It reminded him of something, but he couldn't remember what. A dream…

_…a dream of blue and white, filled with white plains… and then red flowers began to push through the snow… no, they weren't flowers but flames, small fires that made the snow melt and revealed dark mud underneath…_

…the dream he'd had after the blooding.

He began to get truly frightened, and increased his speed to let the pain in arms and legs and lungs override his thoughts.

_The cold must be affecting my brain. Why am I thinking like this? Why did I remember that now? Keep going. Just keep going. Arms like pistons; no thoughts. Only energy._

He had no idea how long he'd been skiing when he finally stopped, panting, rubbing his glove under his nose. Damn this place. Beautiful and magnificent, it made small, insignificant human beings so un-aesthetic and undignified in comparison. A runny nose was about the least attractive thing imaginable.

Draco looked around, and all he saw was snow. White, white, glaring white, so white that after a while he couldn't see it any more. The whiteness blurred into every colour there was, and there was no sense of either direction or distance. When he had stared at it for a while, he couldn't even see the faint blue tracks of his skis any longer. He couldn't tell whether the white surface was horizontal or vertical, couldn't tell whether it was laid out flat before him or an upright wall he'd run into if he moved.

_Don't__ panic, Draco. You can probably Apparate back. And if you can't, you can just follow your own tracks. You know they're there. Breathe._

He tried to Apparate back to the village, but it didn't work. Maybe the village had anti-Apparating wards. Damn it, were there no spells to shade your eyes? They must have spells like that up here, but Draco didn't know any.

_Turn around 180 degrees, you idiot. You'll feel the tracks. Your skis will feel them. _

He laughed at himself and felt much better, turned around and began to follow his own ski tracks back towards the village. Dusk began to fall as he reached the village square, and in the dusk, shapes and forms and a sense of distance existed again for a little while, until it was dark once more.

xxx

So it had happened, Dumbledore thought and leant heavily on the windowsill. Love acknowledged and expressed; love active and working... Now they only had to make the best use of it. Allow it to grow stronger for a while, allow its roots to go deeper… and hope it would be enough. But they didn't have much time.

He sighed and went back to his desk, sat down and ran a finger over the shiny surface of Godric Gryffindor's sword. There were times when he felt abominably, abysmally alone. He missed Nicholas Flamel more than he usually allowed himself to admit – he missed having someone older and wiser than himself to turn to, someone to tell every detail without having to be careful. Everyone needed someone to go to for advice. Even Tom, although he had probably long since convinced himself otherwise.

Dumbledore's long life had landed him in various strange, complex and dangerous situations, but he had rarely been more in need of good, solid advice than he was today. Was he doing the right thing? Had he made an ethically defensible choice? That was the pressing question. And how many times before had he asked himself the same question in connection with Harry Potter?

He was avoiding Harry these days – he had been doing so increasingly over the past few years. Guilt; a bad conscience... The boy had been used since he was an infant. That didn't mean continued use of him was automatically sanctioned – certainly not using him in this particular, cruel way. The poor boy! Even his love could, and would, be exposed, discussed and used.

But surely it wasn't only cruel, not entirely bad? The attraction between the two boys was so obvious, and tonight the Sword had told Dumbledore that this attraction had been spoken of and acted on, and was quickly deepening into love. It would strengthen Harry and enrich his personal life as well as be a shield for the wizarding world. Personal and political gain – it had to count for something. It had to mean it wasn't wrong.

And in any case, it was all they had.

Love was their only effective weapon, and Harry their only hope. It was Harry Potter's bad fortune and sad fate to have been born with such strength of emotion and magical power, to have been blessed with love that strong.

Dumbledore placed the Sword on its velvet cushion, and when he covered it with its red, gold-trimmed cloth, he noticed that his eyes were watering. He was getting old, after all, and tonight he felt older than ever.

Which was only logical and proper, he told himself wryly, as this very minute he _was_ indeed older than he had ever been.

He chuckled and felt better for a brief moment. Then he straightened his back, took a deep breath and decided it was time to call Severus Snape and Remus Lupin to his office.

xxx

The Portkey dropped Harry and Draco rather brusquely at the train station in Hogsmeade. They got up, dusted off their knees and smiled a little sadly at each other. Their magical week was over, and reality was back with a vengeance.

Harry's gaze wandered to Draco's mouth; he wanted desperately to kiss him and not care who saw it, kiss his mouth, his neck, his collarbone, push his fingers through the blond hair… hold him and never let go. When his eyes went back up to Draco's, the intensity told him the desire was mutual. He was glad he was wearing robes.

When they picked up their trunks, their hands brushed. Both of them winced. They smiled at each other again.

"I guess this is it then," Draco said quietly. "I'd have liked to stay another week."

Harry's face went hot. "At least a week," he said.

Draco's eyes held his again. "We're in the same building," he said. "I know it won't be the same, but you know where my rooms are. And I know where yours are."

Was it possible to have sex just with your eyes and your mind? In Harry's mind, they were kissing fiercely, grinding against each other with hands pushing under clothes, and he had no doubt that Draco was imagining the same.

But they had to leave, and Harry tried to ignore his painful erection as they climbed into the carriage outside the station. When they had left the village lights behind and entered the dark, winding road to the Academy, Draco was suddenly on Harry's lap, straddling him, kissing him, fumbling under his robes, pulling up his shirt to touch bare skin, unbuttoning his jeans…

"Draco - ! Oh…"

There was laughter in Draco's voice as he slid down from Harry's lap and his mouth moved down Harry's stomach. "Quickly, before we're there!"

Harry's answering laugh trailed off in a series of moans.

When they descended from the carriage outside the guarded gates of the Academy, they both looked serenely innocent, if a little flushed. Cleaning spells were very handy sometimes. Harry gave Draco a smile, the taste of him still in his mouth.

xxx

Hermione saw it at once: something had happened between Harry and Malfoy.

There was a new kind of subtle intimacy between them, a new easiness towards the other that could only follow from acquaintance and knowledge. They kept glancing at each other continually, but it wasn't the tense staring of earlier. Now there were held gazes, tiny smiles and flushed faces, and sometimes a surreptitious touch, a brushing of hands as they passed through a doorway side by side. A quiet happiness radiated from Harry and was visible from time to time in Draco Malfoy's eyes. Sometimes, when Malfoy looked at Harry, his eyes even held something that could be described as tenderness. Hermione had never believed him capable of anything so human and gentle as tenderness, but she saw it in him now.

She couldn't say she was surprised, exactly – something had obviously been going on between the two of them for a long time. Nor was she upset over Harry being gay, even though she'd never really reflected over the possibility before. His crush on Cho Chang had prevented any thoughts in that direction. But she was upset nevertheless. She supposed it had more to do with her than with him.

She knew she ought to have been pleased for Harry, who had had such an awful time for so long, but instead she felt betrayed and absurdly lonely, lonelier than she'd thought possible. She raged silently in her room at night, choked back tears when the boys exchanged looks, refused to sit next to Harry in the library. She flounced away from him more than once when he talked to her or teased her or tried to put a hand on her shoulder, and she felt ridiculous doing it, but she just couldn't stand it. She hated it when he got that dreamy look on his face and sat staring wistfully at the back of Malfoy's blond head, oblivious of anything and anyone else. But she hated it even more when he was aware of her presence, turning his smiling eyes to her and treating her like one of the guys. She wanted to be more than that, different. She had thought she was.

Sometimes she tried to tell herself that it was only the natural envy she'd feel towards anyone who was happy and in love, who had something she herself had only just begun to discover and experience with Ron and had then abruptly and brutally been denied. But she knew it was more, and more precise than that: she was furiously jealous of Draco Malfoy.

Hermione had been vaguely jealous of Cho Chang, faintly contemptuous of Harry's taste in girls, but this was different. This was serious; it was _real_.

She was pleased to note, though, that her feelings weren't entirely selfish. Apart from wanting her friendship with Harry to be like it was before, wanting him to depend on her and study with her and come to her when he needed to talk, she was also scared for him. His choice of partner worried her deeply, even though she could plainly see that Malfoy loved him back. She still didn't trust Malfoy. She wondered if she ever would.

Hermione gradually stopped talking to Harry, stopped having lunch or coffee with him and stopped studying with him in the evenings, and she saw that he didn't really notice her absence or withdrawal. He was too infatuated with Malfoy to see anyone else, even his oldest and closest friend.

Closest! Not any more, it seemed.

She reverted to her old, proven remedy, the one thing that always worked: she buried herself in her studies. She was good at immersing herself in books, making herself very busy, cramming her brain with so many facts and details that there was no room for anything else. It had the advantage of making her exhausted, too, so she fell asleep as soon as she lay her head on the pillow, thus avoiding long nights waiting for sleep to come.

Her serious nature meant she had never made friends easily. It was getting a little better as she got older, but she was still far from the type who made bosom buddies wherever she went. Harry had been such a close friend for so long that going to him for all kinds of things – tea, a hug, a chat, a laugh – wasn't a habit easily broken. It was obvious to her now that she needed him more than she'd thought, and she missed his company so much it hurt.

xxx

It was pain, sweet pain to keep seeing Draco in class, the corridors and the library, and not be allowed to touch him. In Advanced Charms this morning, Harry had missed a big chunk of the lecture because he was staring at the back of Draco's neck in front of him, bewitched; watching the dusting of downy blond hairs on the pale skin glint and shimmer in the light from the window. It had made heat pool in his groin, made his knees weak and his stomach liquid. He was yet again grateful he was wearing robes.

Now, alone in his bed, he thought of that neck again. He thought of smooth skin, wiry arms, the way Draco closed his eyes as he threw his head back… Harry's hand slid down between his legs. _Draco__ halfway off the bed, lost in sensation, mouth half open, moaning helplessly…_ He increased his speed, pretended his hand was Draco's hand. He missed Draco so much his entire body ached; it was as if Draco's absence absurdly touched his skin… _I want his weight on top of me… his tongue on my nipples... oh god… the noises he makes when he comes…_ – and Harry came with Draco's name on his lips, pretending it was Draco's semen pulsing over his hand and stomach.

_This is absurd, totally insanely absurd_, he thought a little later and had to grin to himself now that some of the tension was gone. _I miss him so much I feel I'm dying without him, and he's only a floor away._

He turned on his side and fell asleep, hugging a pillow that was a very poor substitute for what he really wanted.

xxx

Draco had appeared in Harry's room just before midnight like an unexpected gift. When Harry had opened the door to him, he'd just said "Shhh," put a finger over his lips, backed Harry into the room and locked the door behind them. And he'd been right; no words were needed. Some things spoke for themselves.

Now, the boys were dozing in the rumpled bed, clothes strewn over floor and furniture.

They hadn't closed the curtains over the window. It was a beautiful night and they were on the top floor, after all – no one could see them, as protection spells prevented anyone from flying over the Academy. The moon was a cold radiant sphere and the night wind chased streaks of cloud over the black sky. Moonlight fell across the bed and outlined their drowsy, naked limbs. It didn't illuminate so much as deepen the surrounding darkness.

When Harry looked at Draco in the blue light, he thought that beauty was a word that simply begged to be used in connection with this boy. The moon didn't beautify, but there was no need – nothing could make Draco more beautiful than he already was. Nothing and no one could even come close.

Harry's eyes filled with wonder as he gazed at Draco. There was love and lust and adoration too, but mostly wonder. Some days he didn't think too much about it – he simply accepted the wonderful fact. But sometimes, like now, he had to stop and marvel. How could something as fantastic as this have happened? How was it possible that they were here?

Grey eyes opened to look into green, but no colours were visible now; everything was just shades of grey and silver in the ghostly, shimmering light.

A long slender hand hooked itself gently around Harry's neck and pulled his head down. Lips met lips in a long slow kiss that carried sleep and sweetness and traces of the salty bitter fluid that they had both recently tasted.

Harry savoured it and felt that nothing he could get from Draco would ever be enough to sate him, not ever.

xxx

The boys had been dozing, but now Draco stirred out of his half-slumber. He turned his head to look at the peaceful face next to his own. How could it be so amazing, so breathtaking, just to watch someone breathe?

He traced a finger over Harry's cheekbone, down to his jaw, down his neck. He let his palm slide down the bare arm, and Harry moved slightly under the touch.

"Mmmm...?"

He opened his eyes and met Draco's, and a smile woke in them. Draco found no words. He just gazed into those eyes, trying to grasp the fact that it was his own presence that called forth that smile. It spread to Harry's mouth, that slightly crooked smile that used to annoy Draco no end but now found ridiculously endearing.

An arm came up around Draco's neck, and a hand ruffled the hair at the back of his head.

"This is so good."

Harry's voice was no more than a murmur. Strange how it could pervade Draco's entire being. And it made him do something he'd never done before.

He asked to be held, afraid even as he said it that his request would be denied.

But it wasn't, of course it wasn't. He snuggled as close as he could and buried his nose in Harry's neck, and Harry's arms held him close. Safe. Safer than he'd ever felt before. And yet it was such a deceptive feeling – as if you'd ever be safe, anywhere.

It was wonderful, and it was frightening. No one had ever held Draco like this until Harry did. It scared him to be so close to Harry, so needy, and to know that this was something he could lose.

_But__ I won't. Of course I won't._

He wondered why he felt like he was drowning.

xxx

A little later, Harry sat up and pulled Draco with him. He took Draco's face in his hands and looked deeply into his eyes, leant his forehead against Draco's for a moment and then began to kiss his face softly. Draco was utterly still, barely even breathing. Then his hands came up into Harry's hair, down the back of his neck, fingertips circling gently.

"Harry…?" It was only a whisper.

"Yes?" Harry whispered back.

Draco took a long, shaky breath, and hearing the words spoken shouldn't have been a shock, it shouldn't, but still it was:

"I think I love you. I think... I really... do."

xxx

Much later, they were sitting up in bed, leaning against the headboard and wrapped in the duvet, talking softly about Quidditch, about love, about nothing. Harry had his head on Draco's shoulder and Draco's arm loosely around him, and the darkness around them was warm. They were quiet for a while, listening to night sounds, and then Harry said in a low voice:

"I'd like you to tell me something you've never told anyone before."

Draco tensed.

"What? I mean – why? What do you want me to tell you?"

"Anything. Just something you've never told anyone. Something you've felt or thought, or something you like doing but never talk to anyone about. Like a silly habit you have, or a memory..." He lifted his head to meet Draco's eyes. "Or some occasion when you've made an idiot of yourself. But then I've seen you do that so many times."

Draco smacked a pillow into his grin.

A pillow-fight later, they snuggled down again, and Draco pondered. Something he'd never told anyone? There were so many things he'd never told anyone or talked about. Too many. He had no idea where to start.

"Tell me something about your family. I'm interested in your parents."

"My... parents? Why?"

Harry shrugged. "Possibly because I never knew mine. I never had a real family. Or perhaps because whenever I've met your father, it's been... very unpleasant. And I've wondered what it was like to grow up with... with him around."

Draco looked up into the ceiling.

"I don't really have a family any more," he said, trying to sound very casual.

Harry sat up straight and half turned around to face him, a horrified look in his eyes.

"Draco – I'm sorry. Really. I'm sorry. I didn't think."

Draco shrugged.

"It's okay. I don't think too much about it any more."

It wasn't exactly true, but it wasn't a lie either.

"Will you tell me what happened? You said something happened the summer after our sixth year. It must have been something with your father. Will you tell me?"

"No." Draco shook his head. "No, I don't want to talk about that. Not now. But I'll tell you something else about my father. A memory I have of him. Just let me think for a second… I need to get my thoughts together."

Harry sat back again, pulled his knees up, waited.

Draco closed his eyes. His feelings towards his father had always been a mix of fear, admiration and frustration, a desperate wish to impress, and a deep longing for acceptance and closeness that was never fulfilled. Respect? Yes, to a certain extent. Love? Love had never been overtly given, offered, or encouraged, but it had been there in its own reserved way. Still, there was no denying that fear was, and always had been, a main ingredient in their relationship. Every time Draco had met his father unexpectedly or been called into Lucius' study, he'd been afraid. But he hadn't always known of what.

He opened his eyes again and looked at the white moon outside the window. It was the moon that made him remember an occasion when that had not been the case; the one time he hadn't been afraid of his father. Once. In eighteen years. Well, there had been fear that time, too; it wasn't so easily discarded – but it had only been faint that evening, buried deep.

He thought about it for a long time, wondering how to tell Harry this.

xxx

_Draco's__ mother used to come in and kiss him goodnight when he'd gone to bed. She would kiss his forehead or his nose. She would stroke his cheek; her touch was light as a snowflake landing on his skin and it melted away as swiftly. She took the lamp with her when she left, leaving him in darkness._

_She didn't know he was afraid of the dark._

_When there was a full moon, Draco couldn't sleep. Sometimes he did go to sleep after she'd left the room, but woke up again after only a few minutes. Those nights were very long. It was as if they breathed, slowly in, slowly out, like a tide._

_There were things he could only do when there was a full moon._

_He could sneak out of bed and open the curtains, and then go back to bed and lie there looking at the bright moon. It looked so ghostly out there, a white luminous sphere against the black backdrop of the sky. He could lift his hand in front of his face, and if he held it in a certain position and closed one eye, it looked as if he were holding the moon between his thumb and index finger, like a pearl held up for inspection. Just like he'd seen that man do, who had the jeweller's shop in Knockturn Alley. _

_Once, when he lay like that, holding the moon between his fingers, his father entered the room. Draco froze in his position as Lucius did in his, on the threshold, when he saw that Draco was awake. Perhaps they both felt equally awkward, although Draco had never connected his father with awkwardness. In the moonlight they could see each other faintly but clearly, like ghosts, not quite real._

_"Draco, what are you doing? You should be asleep."_

_Lucius__' voice was cold as always, but there was a softer edge than usual._

_"Yes, father. But I couldn't... I couldn't sleep. The moonlight was so bright."_

_Lucius__ didn't reply immediately. He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him._

_"The moon was too bright, so you opened the curtains...?"_

_Draco knew without seeing it that an eyebrow had gone up. But Lucius' tone of voice surprised Draco – it was more amused than sarcastic. Lucius went up to the bed and sat on the edge. Draco held his breath. He couldn't remember his father ever sitting on his bed like that, except for a few times when Draco had been ill as a small child, and then only for a brief moment. Now Lucius was looking down at him, his face shimmering. Lucius rarely smiled but there was a faint smile around his lips now. His eyes were dark smudges and Draco couldn't see their expression._

_"I couldn't sleep," he said to his father, "so then I wanted to see the moon. I like lying here looking at it. I've done it before."_

_It was an admission he'd never have made under normal circumstances, but this night was so extraordinary he felt he could do or say anything without risking punishment._

_"At least we know you're not a werewolf," Lucius said._

_The amusement in his voice was unmistakable now. What had happened, Draco wondered, to put him in this strange mood? There was alcohol on his breath, but the smell wasn't overpowering or sickly as it could sometimes be. Draco tried a smile, and his father smiled back down at him. _

_"So what was that you were doing with your hand in front of your face when I came in?"_

_And__ Draco felt he could say anything – almost anything._

_"I was holding the moon," he whispered. "Between my thumb and forefinger. Just held it. Like a pearl."_

_Lucius__ didn't reply. He turned his face towards the window, towards the moon, and there was a furrow between his eyebrows. Then he lifted his own hand and made as if to pinch the air, as if he were measuring something, and the furrow disappeared. He closed his left eye and squinted at the cold light._

_"Yes," he said slowly. "It really is like a pearl. A very bright, beautiful pearl."_

_He lowered his hand again and his eyes were lost somewhere far away. _

_"Did I ever show you The Foolish Maidens, Draco?"_

_"No, father."_

_"Then it's about time I did."_

_Draco waited. He could almost feel the shadows breathe around him. _

_"Tomorrow.__ Come into my study after breakfast and I'll show you. Jewels, Draco. Pearls. They live their own lives. Sometimes I don't believe they belong to us at all. Perhaps we belong to them for a while, and when they get restless they will discard us and move on. The moon now, Draco. Your pearl. You'd better hold on to it while you can, because it will leave you. They always do." _

_Draco didn't quite understand, but he slowly lifted his hand in front of his face, closed his left eye and took the shining sphere between his thumb and forefinger. Father and son were silent for a long while, but time was both slow and fast that night. It washed back and forth like a tide, endless waves of time._

_"Isn't it extraordinary," Lucius said softly, "that we can both hold the moon? That we can be here together, but each of us holding the moon in his own hand."_

_Although Draco could have said anything, almost anything, he had no reply. And after a few more of those slow and fast seconds, Lucius rose from the bed and pulled the eiderdown up to Draco's chin. He went over to the window and closed the curtains. Draco couldn't see him any more but heard him mumble "Lumos". In the light from his wand he went back to the bed and reached out as if to smooth Draco's hair, but then pulled back before he'd touched his son._

_"Good night, Draco. Go to sleep now."_

_He turned and left the room, closed the door silently, leaving Draco in the dark._

_He didn't know Draco was afraid of the dark. _

_But at__ least Draco knew that the moon was still there, bright and radiant like the most precious pearl, on the other side of the curtains. _

xxx

"That's the only time in my life I can remember not being scared of him," Draco mumbled when he'd finished, his face turned away from Harry. "Or, only a little. And it's the only time I've felt that I… that he... that he cared." He paused, and when he continued, his voice was steadier and clearer. "He showed me The Foolish Maidens the next day, like he'd said he would. It's a clasp, a 17th century robe clasp. He told me it's been in our family since 1688 but was probably made earlier, in the 1620s perhaps. It held the robes of Charles-Louis Malfoy in the big goblin battle in 1710. My father spoke of it in a sort of choked voice, as if it moved him so much he needed to swallow or clear his throat. I thought it was embarrassing. I don't even think it's a very pretty piece of jewellery – I don't now and I didn't then. But I didn't tell him that, of course. I never told him I don't understand his ridiculous fascination with pearls."

They were silent for a long time, their thoughts wandering in separate directions. Harry would have liked to ask Draco about the pearls and their significance, talk to him about the moon that must have looked just like it did tonight, heavy and low and white, the ghostly light turning everything chalk-blue. He would have liked to ask about Lucius, about Draco's fear of his father, but he didn't dare. It was so ironic. For once, Draco's face was naked and his soul laid bare, and it would only take one step, one move from Harry... and then he was too afraid to do it.

"What about you?" Draco finally asked.

Harry jumped.

"What about me?"

"Well, it's your turn. Your turn to tell me something you've never told anyone."

Harry bit his lip. Something he'd never told anyone…? Something he was ashamed of or embarrassed about – those were the things you didn't tell anyone. Things that were potentially hurtful or even dangerous.

He wanted to tell Draco something important, something _real_, not just some laughable little thing that was embarrassing in a trivial, everyday kind of way. He wanted to tell Draco something special, to show him how special _he_ was.

"I don't know much about your family either," said Draco. "Everyone knows your story but not much detail. I hardly know anything about your… your Muggle relatives, for instance. Perhaps you could tell me something about them."

Harry felt himself go scarlet and was grateful for the relative darkness. He never thought about the Dursleys if he could help it, and when he did, it was mostly with anger at the hundred ways they had humiliated him.

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything!" Draco checked himself. "I mean… anything. Like… how exactly are you related to them? And why were you left with them? Was there no one in the wizarding world who could have taken care of you?"

Harry drew a deep breath. He had started this, and it was only fair, after all.

"Well. I've been told there were wizard families who wanted to take me after my parents had died, but it was a question of protecting me from Voldemort." Draco drew a sharp breath but Harry ignored him and continued, "Petunia Dursley is my aunt, my mother's sister, and blood would be the strongest protection. So Dumbledore left me with the Dursleys until I was eleven and could go to Hogwarts."

"Did no one contact you? From the wizarding world?"

"No. I had no idea I was a wizard, or that wizards even existed for real – not until my eleventh birthday, actually. The Dursleys didn't tell me anything about my dad's side of the family; they never told me anything at all about my parents except a lie."

"What was the lie?"

"That they had died in a car crash."

Draco looked shocked. "That's… that's really…"

Harry shrugged. "They hated me. They still do – they hate anything to do with magic. I think my uncle hates it because he has no imagination. He doesn't understand it and he hates anything he doesn't understand, which is most things really, except for drills and eating. And I think my aunt hates my mum because she was jealous of her being a witch, being special – I guess my mum got more attention than Aunt Petunia when they grew up."

"So your grandparents didn't mind the magic?"

"I've never talked to Aunt Petunia about it. The one time I tried, she threatened to throw me out of the house and I didn't get any food for three days. I just heard her say once – to Hagrid, actually, when he came to take me to Hogwarts – that my grandparents were thrilled to have a witch in the family."

"She didn't give you any food for three days…? They starved you?"

"It sounds a bit melodramatic, but I guess they did. Now and then. Food was their main way of showing appreciation – or displeasure. Which meant my cousin Dudley was a fat pig and I was as thin as a rake."

The mix of pity, indignation and anger on Draco's face made Harry warm inside – and the slightest bit uncomfortable. He didn't want to be pitied. But Draco's mood changed suddenly, or perhaps he wanted to make something up to Harry, try to make up for his miserable childhood. He pushed Harry down on his back on the bed, pinned his arms to his side and began to kiss him, kiss him everywhere.

"You're not a rake any more, though," Draco mumbled with his mouth just above Harry's nipple. "You're more like… like the latest Firebolt model. Slim… and splendid."

His hair brushed against Harry's skin, so soft, while his hands held Harry's hips.

Harry thought of the fantastic contrast between the Dursleys and _this_, and what the Dursleys would say if they knew, and he laughed, and gasped, and laughed again.

xxx

Draco stood in front of the mirror on the inside of his wardrobe door and looked at himself critically. He ran his hands over his chest, stomach, hipbones, and smiled a little at the memory of Harry's hands doing the same. Harry's touch made him beautiful. It softened edges and relaxed tense muscles; it made Draco's body open up into acceptance.

But then there was the flame mark.

He turned around and twisted his neck painfully in order to see the mark. Harry hadn't asked about it the way he'd asked about the water lily, and Draco was grateful, because what would he say? "I stood naked in front of the Dark Lord, and he touched me with a finger dipped in a dead Muggle woman's blood"? Draco shuddered violently, and for a moment he thought he'd have to throw up.

The mark had begun to hurt again lately, a sick, dull, throbbing pain that made him constantly aware of it. It scared him. He wanted to know what it was; wanted to know what Lord Voldemort had done to him and whether the flame mark was related to the Dark Mark in some way. It had to be, and Draco wanted to know exactly what the connection was – no, he didn't really want to know, but it also scared him not to know. None of the books he'd looked in had offered any answers.

Should he try to use…?

He met his own wide, frightened eyes in the mirror. Well, wouldn't it be worth a try? What could happen? If he did try, would Lord Voldemort know about it? Draco looked himself in the eye for a long time, and finally gave himself a nod. He would try. He had to. What was knowledge for, if not to be used?

He reached for his wand, hesitated for a moment and then put out the light, took a deep breath and pointed the wand at the flame mark:

"_Patefacio__ Rei recreo!"_

The spell came out in a hoarse whisper. Draco could feel the wand tremble in his hand as he waited for something to happen. But nothing did, and he didn't feel anything except for the same dull pain. Perhaps he needed to be more assertive. He cleared his throat and pointed the wand again, keeping his hand steady:

"_Patefacio__ Rei recreo!"_

It was louder and clearer now. Surely this had to work.

At first, nothing happened, but then a sensation of heat spread slowly from the flame mark through his entire body and into his limbs. It was icy hot, burning cold, liquid fire, poison... Draco's wand fell to the floor with a clatter. A flickering light began to glow like a green aura all around his body. He turned to look at himself in the mirror and got a full frontal image, a towering figure, naked with his arms held out slightly from his sides, and with that eerie green light surrounding him… It was terrifying; he looked like someone he'd never met before, a complete stranger.

_Help me_, he thought numbly.

And then he heard the laugh, the unmistakable, soft, wheezing laugh – heard it so closely he thought Lord Voldemort was there with him in the room. It was as if Voldemort was laughing right into his ear, or inside his head.

Then the light faded, the burning sensation died out and the laugh trailed off into silence. Draco was left in the dark, weak and shivering as if he'd just woken up from a feverish dream.

No one but Harry had ever known Draco was afraid of the dark.


End file.
